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FLYING HILL FARM 


a Storg 



SOPHIE SWETT 

* V 

AUTHOR OF “ CAPTAIN POLLY ” ETC. 


ILLUSTRATED 



NEW YORK 

HARPER & BROTHERS, FRANKLIN SQUARE 

1892 



AiA7<fX 




A 


<< V - \ 


A* 




Copyright, 1892, by Harper & Brothers. 


All rights reserved. 


/Z-zfu^ 



LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 


“ THE LADDER FELL, AND BURNING BEAMS CAME DOWN 


WiTH IT” 

“PHONSE AND CHERRY IN THE BARN ” 

“THE PIG RAISED HIMSELF ON HIS HIND - LEGS AND 

SHOULDERED ARMS ” 

“ ‘ NOW REST YOUR BONES, YOU POOR OLD CRETUR . . 

“‘RELATE THE CIRCUMSTANCE AS YOU REMEMBER IT,’ SAID 

THE LAWYER ” 

“ ‘ POOR FOLKS CAN’T NEVER GET THEIR RIGHTS ’ ” . . 

“PHONSE FREED HIS MIND ABOUT IT TO CHERRY” . . 

“PIIONSE, IF nE HAD NOT BEEN SO INTENT UPON DRAWING 
THE ‘LIGHTNING TREE,’ MIGHT HAVE SEEN CHERRY 

CLIM3 OVER THE STONE WALL” 

“‘LAND SAKES alive! YOU SCAIRT ME ’MOST TO PIECES’” 

“ THE DEATH OF OLD JANE ” 

“‘TO THINK OF YOUR GETTIN’ SCAIRT OF THIS OLD BLACK- 
ENED TREE TRUNK’” 

“‘HERE ARE TRACKS,’ SAID SIMMY, WHO HAD GONE A FEW 
STEPS INTO ANOTHER PATH, AND WAS FEELING ABOUT 

ON THE GROUND” 

“A TALL, STOOPING FIGURE, WITH A GRIZZLY nEAD, 

CLOTHED IN A LONG NIGHT-GOWN ” 

“ ‘ DILLY, WE BOUGHT THIS HORSE FOR YOU. HE’S GOOD 
AND STRONG’ ” 


Frontispiece 
faces page 2 

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VI 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


“at that moment a door opened cautiously for the 

space of an inch or two ” faces page 134 

“ THE BEAR IMMEDIATELY RAISED HIS PONDEROUS BODY TO 
AN UPRIGHT POSITION AND SHOOK HIS GREAT PAWS, 

LIKE A DOG THAT BEGS FOR IIIS DINNER” . . . . “ “ 138 

“LOYEDAY FOUND HER IN TEARS IN THE RAINY -DAY 

attic” “ “ 158 

“the ‘stars’ of the great exhibition” “ “ 170 

“ DILLY CREPT SOFTLY ALONG TOWARDS THE EDGE OF THE 


LOFT UNTIL SnE COULD LOOK OYER INTO THE BARN 


floor” 

U 

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186 

“’LANDO BUMPUS AND DILLY DISCUSS THE SITUATION” . 

Li 

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212 

“ CHERRY AND DILLY AT THE GARDEN FENCE ” . . . . 

Li 

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220 

“CHERRY giyes rhoda a ‘great hug’” . . . ■ . . 

U 

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236 

“SO CHERRY RODE ON WITH HER PLEASANT PLANS” . 

U 

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242 

“ DILLY GAGE’S HOME-COMING ” . . . . . . . . . 

a 

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260 


PLYING HILL FARM. 


CHAPTER I. 

The great barn at Flying Hill Farm was a pleasant 
place, with its wide doors open at either end, and a 
June breeze, sweet with pinks and syringas, blowing 
through. The lofts were piled high with new-mown 
hay, swallows were wheeling in the dusky spaces over- 
head, and doves cooing in the sunshine; the old gob- 
bler, whose temper was growing more and more infirm 
with age, was scraping the floor with his wings, and 
gobbling with frantic rage at the pert little bantam 
rooster — only a crumb of a rooster, but with a lion 
heart — that would crow defiantly under his very nose; 
the yellow downy ducklings were waddling up from 
the brook in a straggling, quacking procession, and 
great shaggy Sultan -was drowsing in the door-way, too 
sleepy to snub the yellow kitten for making free with 
his tail. A very pleasant place it was, but the tall 
slender boy, with a delicate handsome face, who was 
perched upon one of the rounds of the ladder that led 
to the hay-loft, looked peevish and unhappy; and his 
cousin Cherry — her name, as recorded in the great 
family Bible, was Charity, after Grandma Brewster — 
a fourteen-year-old girl, looked as dejected as it is pos- 
1 


2 


FLYING HILL FARM. 


sible for a round rosy face to look, with a dimple in its 
chin, a twinkle in its eyes, and a nose the least bit snub. 

“This new teacher isn’t a bit like old Proudfit — no, 
I sha’n’t say Miss Proudfit, if I don’t like; you’re as 
bad as Rhoda. She skipped ’round, and asked a lot of 
bothering questions. You be sure to write the expla- 
nation as plain as can be of that fox and greyhound 
example. It’s mean to get up those old-fashioned 
things, anyway; Proudfit never did. I shall get found 
out if you don’t look orfle sharp. You’re not half so 
particular as you used to be; you seem to think I’m 
going to do most of the examples myself. I want them 
all done, you know; only a little bit wrong here and 
there. You ought to know without my telling you. 
A fellow doesn’t like to talk about it. This new teach- 
er thinks an orfle lot of ’rithmetic. What do you think 
she did this forenoon ? — began to have us big fellows 
say the multiplication table all ’round!” 

“Oh, Phonse !” cried Cherry, in dismay. 

“Luckily they all said it off so glibly that she gave 
it up before she got to me.” 

“ Phonse, what we’ve done is awfully wicked, and 
mean and sneaking, too,” said Cherry, firmly. “ I don’t 
see how we came to do it. But you were such a little 
fellow when you first went to school, so small and for- 
lorn in your skirts, though you didn’t seem to mind 
those as Ben did. And that was a cross teacher, wasn’t 
she? — Miss Plumfill, with so many different ear-rings, 
and I couldn’t help whispering your answers to you.” 

“Didn’t I draw her, though!” cried Phonse, trium- 
phantly. “She learned better than to make the sevens 
and the nines and all those mean numbers come to me !” 

“ It was wonderful to see the things that you could 
draw even then,” said Cherry, her face brightening in 
a momentary forgetfulness of her trouble. “And if I 


PHONSE AND CHERRY IN THE DARN. 



i 






















FLYING HILL FARM. 


3 


tried to draw even the cat that the old woman found 
in her pan of milk, every one took it for a sheep. The 
tail had to be rather thick, you know.” 

“A sheep! Why, you can’t draw anything that 
could be taken for any kind of an animal, even now,” 
said Plionse, with a candor which made Cherry wince 
a little, although she laughed. 

“ Phonse, won’t you try to do the examples all by 
yourself?” she said, returning to the charge. “ Or else 
won’t you tell the teacher that you can’t, and I’ll try 
to make Uncle David understand how hard it is for 
you—” 

“ You want to shame me before everybody, do you ? 
If that isn’t meaner than I thought even a girl could 
be!” cried Phonse. “And you’ve always pretended 
that you wanted to do everything you could for me. 
I heard you say once that you promised grandma — ” 

“Oh, I did, Phonse! I didn’t know that you knew 
it, but I did. It was the very night before she died. 
I was on the sofa in her room with Fluff the Angora 
kitten — ” 

“ What a beauty that kitten was, and how fond of 
me ! She would scarcely go to anybody else,” inter- 
rupted Phonse. 

“And how you took care of her when her leg was 
broken ! — you sat up all night long with her,” said Cher- 
ry. “ Grandma was talking to herself that night when 
I was sitting on the sofa with Fluff,” she continued, 
returning to the subject with an evident effort. “ She 
was talking about you. I think she was fonder of you 
than of any one. She said” — Cherry spoke very slow- 
ly, as if feeling her way — “that you were not — were 
not just like every one else ; that you were like your 
father. I think grandma was always proud that he 
would have been a great artist if he had lived, al- 


4 


FLYING HILL FARM. 


though grandpa didn’t like it. She said that you were 
sensitive, and no one would understand and look out 
for you. And I dropped Fluff and ran to the bed, and 
I said, ‘Grandma, I do ! I will!’ ‘You, child!’ she 
said, and she almost smiled. And then she partly 
raised herself in the bed, and she looked at me with 
her eyes so dark and solemn that I was almost afraid, 
and she said, ‘ Don’t forget, Cherry ! Never forget!’ ” 
Phonse had broken off the point of his pencil and 
was whittling another, his whole soul apparently ab- 
sorbed in his occupation. 

“I only told you,” said Cherry, after a moment, “to 
show you that I must want awfully to help you — ” 

“ Oh, bother all that rubbish; that sounds like a silly 
story-book !” cried Phonse. “ It’s a great lot of help- 
ing to make a few figures for a fellow, isn’t it? See 
here, Cherry !” Phonse’s tone softened, and he drew 
from his pocket a well-worn sketch-book and opened 
it before Cherry’s eyes. “You can’t expect a fellow 
who can do that to bother himself about ’rithmetic, 
can you ?” 

“ Oh, Phonse, it’s Dapple and her colt, and they’re 
perfect ! One almost expects to see the colt toss his 
head and scamper off. Show it to Rhoda, Phonse. 
Here she comes.” 

“Hhoda!” exclaimed Phonse, scornfully. “She 
would say, ‘ It’s real cunning ’ — I make a slip once in 
a while myself, but I don’t say real — ‘ it’s real cun- 
ning, but are you sure that the legs are quite straight?’ 
And then she would say — she has said it a thousand 
times — ‘ Oh, Phonsy, won’t you make a motto? I think 
you could make the letters straight if you tried.’ ” 
Phonse spoke in a mimicking, falsetto voice, and his 
handsome face wore a sneering expression that was 
very unpleasant to see. “Bah! I’m off, if she’s com- 


FLYING HILL FARM. 


5 


ing ! She rubs me the wrong way. I can feel the 
sparks fly the minute she comes near.” 

Rhoda came in through the wood -shed as Phonse 
went out through one of the wide doors. She had a 
bit of crochet-work in her hand, and she sat down in 
the swing, allowing it to sway as it would. 

She was smaller than Cherry, although half a year 
older, and her features were of a doll-like smallness and 
primness. Her brown hair was very tightly braided 
and shiningly smooth. Phonse declared that Rhoda’s 
head looked as if it were sand-papered. 

“ Isn’t Phonse here ? I thought I heard his voice,” 
she said. “ Miss Peckett, the new teacher in his room, 
asked me if he hadn’t a very original mind. I said he 
vjas queer. It seemed to be about arithmetic that she 
was thinking. She said he seemed to do better than 
most of the boys, but he had to do it in his own way. 
She couldn’t be sure that he understood what he was 
doing at all. I said ” — Rhoda suddenly held the swing 
motionless with her feet, and, pressing the point of her 
crochet-kneedle against her cheek, looked steadfastly 
at Cherry — “I said I thought he might do better if 
she should change his seat from that old monitor’s desk 
in the corner to one down among the other boys.” 

There was no doubt about what Rhoda meant. 
Cherry’s cheeks were burning, and there was a mist 
between her and the pleasant green world outside the 
wide barn door. It was bitter not to be able to hold 
one’s head up before Rhoda, or meet her gaze straight- 
forwardly. And then suddenly her temper leaped up. 
It was like a jack-in-the-box, that temper of Cherry’s, 
and Rhoda’s fingers had such a knack at the lock. She 
was all ready to pour out a torrent of reproaches upon 
Rhoda, when she surprised her out of her anger by 
saying, 


6 


FLYING HILL FARM. 


“ Cherry, did you ever think that there was anything 
the matter with Phonse’s eyes ?” 

“With his eyes?” repeated Cherry. 

“ I thought he must be very near-sighted, because, 
the other day, when we were coming by the Bayberry 
church, at the corner, he couldn’t tell what time it was. 
And yesterday I called to him from the piazza to tell 
me just what time it was by the hall clock — papa was 
going to the train, and his watch had stopped — and he 
told me to come and see myself; he wasn’t going to 
squiggle his eyes all up for anybody. I thought at 
first that perhaps he was only cross — Phonse so often 
is cross — but I remembered other things, and putting 
two and two together — ” 

“I don’t see why you should always be putting 
two and two together. It is most disagreeable!” cried 
Cherry. 

Jack was quite out of the box now; there was no 
pressing the lid down over him. Phonse’s secret — his 
pitiful little secret, which she had let him think was 
all his own, although it was more than a year ago that 
she had discovered it — Rhoda had found that out too ; 
and although it was such a little thing, and might come 
right in time, Rhoda would make much of it. 

“ I think it ought to be known,” said Rhoda, severe- 
ly; “it is a deceit. He tells wrong stories about it 
continually, and it is so perfectly ridiculous for a 
great boy like that ! What would any one do who 
shirked everything that didn’t come easy ? How is 
he ever going to get along in the world, a boy who 
can’t — ” 

“He is going to get along because he has more 
brains than most people in other ways, and because I 
am going to help him,” cried Cherry, fiercely. “And if 
any one tries to interfere with us — ” And then she 


FLYING HILL FARM. 


7 


broke down completely, and rushed up the ladder to 
the hay-mow, which was always a grateful refuge when 
temper or tears overcame her. 

Poor tempestuous Cherry! And Rhoda’s voice fol- 
lowed her clear and firm: 

“ Papa asked me what would be best to give Phonse 
for a birthday present, and I said a watch, hie cer- 
tainly ought to learn — ” 

Rhoda never showed temper; she only grew colder 
and more dignified when she was angry, while Cherry, 
once at the mercy of the impish jack, was in a tumult 
of rage. She threw herself down on the hay, and put 
her fingers in her ears, for Rhoda would be likely to 
go on talking, apparently not realizing in the least that 
she was saying anything unpleasant. 

The scent of the new-mown hay was delicious; there 
was a window near her which was a framework for a 
bit of blue sky, so softly, deeply blue that it was like 
a balm to angry, tearful eyes; in and out of the win- 
dow, snowy white against the blue, flew Phonse’s pret- 
ty fan-tailed pigeons. Cherry wished that she might 
take her fingers out of her ears and hear nothing but 
their soft and soothing coos; but Rhoda was probably 
still going on, saying “ horrid things ” in that calm and 
even voice of hers. 

As her anger cooled Cherry began to feel wicked 
and miserable and deeply penitent. Rhoda’s misdeeds 
loomed less darkly before her than her own. Rhoda 
was at least quite incapable of cheating. What a tri- 
fling thing it had seemed at first to try to help Phonse — 
such a poor little fellow ! with lessons about which he 
was strangely dull — and how queer it was that it could 
have gone on so long ! The teacher had been careless, 
and that solitary corner seat had favored the deceit so 
much. The boys thought Phonse could do the fox and 


8 


FLYING HILL FAKM. 


greyhound problem, the one about the frog coming 
out of the well, even the one about the shadow cast by 
the dial, when, in fact, he was scarcely equal to the 
literal performance of Rhoda’s favorite mental feat of 
putting two and two together ! 

But she need no longer puzzle her brains for a way 
to put an end to the cheating. Rhoda would attend to 
that, she thought bitterly. 

Suddenly a fine clear whistle penetrated even her 
closed ears; they must be altogether deaf ears which 
Ben’s whistle could fail to reach. 

Cherry felt a little thrill of hope and cheer. 

Ben brought that kind of thing with him, one hard- 
ly knew how. He was as bracing as a north wind. 
He never seemed to believe that there was anything 
that could not be done. He always said “ there never 
was a scrape without a way out of it.” 

Ben sometimes got into scrapes himself, it must be 
acknowledged, being a boy, but his way of getting out 
of them was always a fair and manly one. 

Cherry’s second thought made her heart sink again. 
Ben would be quite incapable of getting into such a 
“ scrape ” as she and Phonse had done. Ben was what 
Simmy Backup, their friend and neighbor, called “an 
orfle square feller.” It would be difficult to tell Ben 
about it, having Ben’s honest blue eyes looking straight 
at one; but as Ben’s whistle rang out again, supplement- 
ed by a shout of “Cherry! Cherry!” she found heart 
to answer, 

“ I’m here, Ben — up in the loft !” 

Rhoda, it appeared, had gone. That, Cherry said to 
herself, was some consolation. 

A round head, thatched with dark tight curls, ap- 
peared above the topmost rung of the ladder. Those 
curls were the trial of Ben’s life, it being from his point 


FLYING HILL FARM. 


9 


of view strictly necessary to thrash a boy, whatever 
his size, who called one “ Sissy 

“ Howling ! Well, it must take a good deal to make a 
fellow howl to-day, if a fellow is a girl. There are the 
strawberries getting ripe down in the south meadow, 
thick as spatter; Gordon’s brook is full of trout; there’s 
the picnic on Tumble Down Hill coming off to-morrow. 
I can’t say I think much of picnics myself, but girls 
like them. And papa says the new colt is to be yours ; 
and see here !” Ben drew out of his pockets, which 
Cherry had previously observed to be much distended, 
a pair of very small lop-eared rabbits. 

“ Beauties, aren’t they ?” he said, in response to Cher- 
ry’s exclamation of delight. “ I got them for Phonse. 
Bought them of Tommy Nute — a quarter and my sec- 
ond-best jack-knife, and some fish-hooks and a harmon- 
ica, and an old story-book. Tommy is sharp, you know. 
I’ve been about a week bringing him to those terms; 
had to throw in three of Loveday’s dough-nuts, as it 
was; but I was determined to have them. Phonse has 
been wanting rabbits for so long, and I knew he was 
orfle short. Besides, he couldn’t drive any kind of a 
bargain with Tommy Nute.” 

Cherry’s face was all aglow. Truly Ben was no 
Job’s comforter. 

“ Oh, they are so pretty, and Phonse will be so 
pleased!” she exclaimed. “And you are the best cous- 
in, the dearest, most generous boy — ” 

“ Oh, I’m a fine fellow, of course,” said Ben ; “ but 
you see, Cherry, this isn’t exactly a matter of generos- 
ity. Phonse is an orfle obstinate fellow, you know, and 
he will do something that I don’t want him to, and 
these rabbits are to — well, not to hire him off ; you 
couldn’t do that to Phonse if you wanted to — but they 
are to take his mind off Simmy Backup’s pig. When 


10 


FLYING HILL FARM. 


you’re trying to develop a pig’s mentality it’s fatal to 
overfeed him, and Phonse is always afraid something 
is hungry; of course a pig will eat all the time if you 
let him. Yesterday I caught Phonse stuffing Love- 
day’s company pound-cake down that pig’s throat; he 
said he ate it as if he were starving, poor pig! A pig, 
you know — of course he would. And he always calls 
him ‘ poor pig !’ And he is all the time stuffing him. 
Of course Simmy can’t educate him. And I’ve shown 
him how, and I’m helping him, and of course I feel 
responsible.” The tone was gloomy, very, for Ben. 

“ I thought he shouldered arms beautifully, Ben,” 
said Cherry, consolingly. 

“He did, didn’t he?” Ben’s face brightened. “But 
that was before Phonse began to feed him so. He’s so 
fat now he really can’t, you know. It’s not of much 
use to try to coax Phonse, and of no use at all to get 
mad with him. But Simmy thinks I ought to stop 
him.” 

“ He is so tender-hearted,” murmured Cherry, apolo- 
getically. 

“ Garibaldi likes being trained. It’s an immense 
thing for him. If it hurt him in the least Simmy 
wouldn’t do it; nor I wouldn’t, not a bit sooner than 
Phonse. Isn’t it better, as Simmy says, for him to be 
a performing pig, with his name in big letters on a 
show-bill, than to be made into pork ?” 

Cherry nodded rather vaguely and absently; per- 
haps she didn’t feel qualified to decide the question; it 
is no doubt difficult, notwithstanding Simmy Backup’s 
confidence, to enter into the tastes and preferences of 
a pig. 

“I’ve been getting provoked with Hhoda,” Cherry 
said, dejectedly. 

“ Oh, that’s it, is it ?” said Ben, with a sympathetic 


FLYING HILL FARM. 


11 


accent. “ Well, Rhoda is a — a kind of a hoarhound- 
drop sometimes; but then perhaps she’s wholesome.” 

“ I wouldn’t mind if she only wouldn’t pick upon 
Phonse,” said Cherry. 

“Oh, let Phonse fight his own battles; what’s a fel- 
low for but to do that, and to fight other people’s when 
they can’t. It’s good for him.” 

Even Ben would never understand that Phonse 
couldn’t be like other people. 

He had restored the rabbits to his pockets, taking 
great pains to give them plenty of air, and was about 
to descend the ladder, when he stopped suddenly. 

“ Oh, Cherry, such a queer thing has happened. I 
wonder that I forgot to tell you. Those rabbits .drove 
everything else out of my head. Phonse has got to go 
to court.” 

“ To court !” Cherry sprang up from the hay, her 
face growing white. A host of vague fears rushed 
upon her. Could it be about the examples ? As bad 
as that was, it could scarcely be a crime against the 
law; and Phonse surely could not be arrested for feed- 
ing Simmy Backup’s pig, although it was sorely against 
Simmy’s will. If it really interfered with the pig’s ed- 
ucation perhaps he might be “ bound over to keep the 
peace,” or something of that kind; but surely Deacon 
Backup would have appealed to Phonse’s uncle before 
taking any severe measures. What could Phonse have 
been doing ? She could not find voice to ask, although 
Ben, standing on the topmost rung of the ladder, was 
arranging his pockets for the greater convenience of 
their occupants, and giving his whole mind to that oc- 
cupation, oblivious of the suspense that she was suf- 
fering. 


12 


FLYING HILL FARM. 


CHAPTER II. 

Ben at length had his rabbits satisfactorily arranged, 
one pinky-white ear hanging out of each of his jacket- 
pockets, and his mind was at liberty to return to mat- 
ters of less personal moment. 

“You know the old tin-peddler Preserved Gage — 
Plum Preserves, the fellows call him? Well — what in 
the world are you looking so scared about, Cherry? 
Is it because Phonse has got to go to court ? Pooh ! 
that’s nothing; it’s rather good fun. And it’s such a 
queer thing — so much depends on Phonse’s remem- 
bering. You know Preserved got run into by the train 
down at the crossing last spring. He had left his wag- 
on standing at the door of Hickey’s store, and was go- 
ing across the track to carry a broom to old Mrs. Pren- 
dergast. Joe Grier, the flagman, called to him to wait, 
but he was too eager for a trade, and so the engine 
struck him. It knocked him off the track, and he 
didn’t seem to be much hurt. They said he picked 
himself up and got onto his wagon without help, and 
began to make a fuss about the loss of his broom, 
which was all knocked into splinters. But now he has 
sued the railroad company for an orfle lot of damages ; 
says his spine was injured, and that affected his eye- 
sight so that now he’s stone-blind, and he’s got a doc- 
tor to swear to it. Perhaps it is so; nobody knows; 
but it will come pretty hard to the Byerly branch to 
pay all that money. It’s a separate thing from the 
main road, you know, and it’s responsible. It’s all 


FLYING HILL FARM. 


13 


owned by two or three men, and father is one of them. 
So you see if Preserved is shamming, it’s pretty im- 
portant to prove it. He says that he couldn’t see much 
of anything when he got onto his wagon after the ac- 
cident, but he was too scared and bewildered to say 
anything about it, and that his eyesight kept grow- 
ing dimmer and dimmer until, when he got home, his 
daughter had to lead him into the house. And he’s 
got a doctor to testify that in a certain kind of an in- 
jury to the spine or brain, I don’t exactly know which, 
the optic nerve might be affected just like that. But 
then appears Eli Perigo, and testifies that he met Pre- 
served on his way home that afternoon, and Preserved 
complained that the train was ahead of time; he knew 
it, because when he came by the Bayberry church, fif- 
teen minutes after the accident, it was just nineteen 
minutes past three by the clock in the steeple, and the 
train wasn’t due until quarter-past three. He asked 
Eli if he didn’t think he would be more likely to get 
damages from the railroad company on that account. 
Then, of course, the company’s lawyer inquired of 
Plum Preserves how he could see the time by the Bay- 
berry church clock, which is across a field from the 
road, if he was so nearly blind, as he said. That might 
have been a poser for Preserved, you see. And they 
said he looked a little queer for a minute. Then he 
said that, as he came along by that field near the 
church, he saw something that looked like a man or a 
boy sitting on the stone wall; that he asked him what 
time it was by the Bayberry church clock, and the boy 
answered (he found out afterwards ’twas a boy) just 
nineteen minutes past three. Then the figure got down 
from the fence and came up to the wagon to hear him 
tell about the accident, and he saw it was ‘ one of the 
Flying Hill Farm boys — the handsome feller’; then, for 


14 


FLYING HILL FARM. 


fear people would think he must certainly mean me, he 
went on to say ‘ the one they called Phonse.’ 

“ So now Phonse has got to go to court and testify 
whether he did or did not tell Preserved Gage what 
time it was by the Bayberry church clock on the after- 
noon of the twenty-fourth of March. And I can tell 
you father is pretty anxious to know whether he did 
or didn’t; he has asked me twice whether it wasn’t 
time for him to come home from school, and it isn’t 
three o’clock yet. Now doesn’t it seem queer for so 
much to be depending upon Phonse ?” 

“ Ben, you must tell your father that Phonse can’t 
go to court!” Cherry’s voice shook with her eager- 
ness. “ He will listen to you. Phonse really can’t go. 
He couldn’t bear it, he is so sensitive.” 

“ Cherry, I must say that for a sensible girl other- 
wise you are the greatest goose about Phonse! Sensi- 
tive! I should like to know what hurt it is going to 
do a fellow, if he is sensitive, to stand up and say 
whether he told a man the time of day or not. If he 
doesn’t remember, he has only to say that he doesn’t.” 

Cherry’s face brightened, but only for a moment. 

“He is sure to remember,” she said, dejectedly. 
“ The lawyers will question and question him and try 
to confuse him, won’t they?” 

“ How could a fellow get confused about such a lit- 
tle thing as that?” demanded Ben; and then he ran 
down-stairs whistling cheerfully. 

They would none of them understand that Phonse 
was not like other people, thought Cherry. Perhaps 
she herself would not have realized it if grandma had 
not impressed it so firmly upon her mind, and made 
her think so much of doing all that she could for him. 

Another bond drew her to Phonse. Ben was a son 
of the house and Rhoda was a daughter, but she 


FLYING HILL FAKM. 


15 


and Phonse were waifs and strays. Phonse, an orphan 
from his babyhood, was the child of Grandpa Brew- 
ster’s youngest son, who had run away from home when 
a boy, and had died young in the hard struggle to 
make his way as an artist ; and Cherry was the child 
of the only daughter of the house, who had married 
against her father’s will and had never been forgiven. 
Aunt Ruth, Uncle David’s wife, had been very kind to 
them, but she had died just before grandma; if she 
had lived Cherry would never have felt upon her small 
shoulders the responsibility of standing between Phonse 
and the world. Row Loveday, who had been grand- 
ma’s maid-of-all-work, was promoted to the position of 
house-keeper, and Rhoda thought she was “the lady of 
the house,” and was gradually and in strict privacy (to 
avoid the jeers of the boys) taking the tucks out of her 
dresses. 

Uncle David was a busy man. Besides managing 
his large farm he was president of the Byerly bank, 
and a director in several manufacturing companies. 
He was a justice of the peace, too, and all the towns- 
people called him Squire Brewster, and came to him to 
settle disputes, as if he were a judge. So it happened 
that he was not aware of Phonse’s deficiencies, espe- 
cially as Cherry, with her often misdirected zeal, was al- 
ways at hand to screen them. Phonse and she were 
alone and poor, and at odds with the world; that was 
the feeling which Cherry sometimes permitted herself 
to cherish, especially when Rhoda was “ aggravating,” 
and it was in danger of making her morbid and self- 
conscious and miserable. She decided that she would 
go to meet Phonse on his way from school, and warn 
him of the questions he was going to be asked. She 
met Uncle David just coming out of the house. 

“Has Phonse come home yet?” he asked her. “If 


16 


FLYING IIILL FAKM. 


you have heard that he is likely to he asked questions 
about what he said to Preserved Gage the day he was 
hurt, don’t say anything to him about it. I don’t wish 
him to be confused by talk. I should have preferred 
to have him know nothing about the matter until he 
went to court, but as the whole town is talking of it, 
that is impossible.” Uncle David frowned his strong 
disapproval of Byerly gossip. “ Mind, I want to speak 
to him about it first myself.” 

There was nothing for Cherry to do but to sit down 
in the porch and wait. Uncle David had gone into 
his office, a little room with a window which gave upon 
the porch, and he would be likely to summon Phonse 
in there. 

If one might only, with a care-free mind, go and 
witness the process of educating Simmy Backup’s pig! 
She would even like to go and make up with Rhoda. 
That was never difficult, and there were no formali- 
ties. Rhoda would be a little dignified at first, and she 
might for some time after offer small reminders of the 
numerous times in their little differences when Cherry 
had been proven all in the wrong ; but Cherry’s kiss 
would be amiably received, and it was not unlikely 
that Rhoda would propose to make caramels; no one 
had such a “ knack” at caramels as Rhoda, and Cherry 
was famous for a sweet tooth. 

But there was Phonse at last, lagging along alone, as 
was his wont, and Cherry’s heart was in her mouth. 

Uncle David put his head out of the window as soon 
as he heard Phonse’s voice. 

“Phonse, do you remember seeing Preserved Gage 
the day he got hurt ?” he asked, in an easy, careless 
way. 

“Yes; I was sitting on the fence down there at the 
corner by the Bayberry church when he drove by. I 


FLYING HILL FARM. 17 

didn’t know that he had got hurt then, though, so I 
didn’t notice him much.” 

“Did he say anything to you?” asked Uncle David. 

“ I don’t remember that he did. Oh yes, he did, 
too; he asked me what time it was by the Bayberry 
church clock.” 

“Did you tell him?” asked Uncle David. 

“ I — I don’t know that I remember.” Cherry’s quick 
eyes saw a faint color rising to Phonse’s tanned cheeks. 
“ I suppose a fellow is likely to tell what time it is 
when he’s asked.” 

“ Do you happen to remember what time it was ?” he 
asked. 

“ No, I don’t,” said Phonse. “I don’t see what dif- 
ference it can make.” 

“You are to go to court next week, and say just 
what you have said to me — all that you can remember 
about Preserved Gage’s question and your answer,” 
said Uncle David. 

“ But — but there isn’t anything to tell,” said Phonse. 
“ I don’t see what need there is of my going to court. 
I didn’t tell him what time it was.” 

“But I thought you just said — ” 

“ I said a fellow would be likely to, that’s all I said,” 
answered Phonse, in an aggrieved tone. 

Uncle David uttered an exclamation of impatience. 
“ Will you try to tell me the facts exactly as you re- 
member them ?” he said, judicially. “ It has become a 
matter of importance.” 

“ I don’t see whose business it can be whether I told 
an old tin-peddler what time it was,” grumbled Phonse, 
and he cast a glance of suspicion at Cherry. “ I didn’t 
tell him, anyway. I was cutting out an alder whistle, 
and I wasn’t going to bother with him. I told him to 
look for himself. I didn’t see why he should ask me 
2 


18 


FLYING HILL FARM. 


to tell him what time it was, with the clock right be- 
fore his eyes. People are always expecting me to be 
eyes and ears for ’em, to say nothing of running my 
legs off. Old Gage grumbled out something, but I 
didn’t listen to him. I happened to see Chissy Fen- 
wick coming across the field just then, and I knew he 
was coming after me to go fishing, and I didn’t think 
anything more about old Gage.” 

“It is as well to say no more about it,” said Uncle 
David with decision. “ Don’t talk about it with any 
one, Phonse. All you will have to tell in court is 
simply what you have told me. Stick to the truth, 
and don’t let any one confuse you into admitting any- 
thing else.” 

“ What is it all about, Cherry ?” asked Phonse, fol- 
lowing Cherry from the porch down into the garden. 
“ Why does Preserved Gage want to say that I told 
him what time it was ?” 

“He has sued the railroad company because the ac- 
cident, he says, has made him blind and paralyzed, and 
the company can prove that he told Eli Perigo what 
time it was when he came by the Bayberry church that 
day: now, he says you told him. And oh, Phonse, if 
they should question you, so that it was necessary, you 
wouldn’t mind, for the sake of saving Uncle David 
from losing a great deal of money — you wouldn’t mind 
owning something that made you a little ashamed, 
would you ? I don’t think you need to mind at all. 
So many people — great men, too — can’t do little easy 
things. I read the other day of a great philosopher 
who couldn’t make change except by counting his fin- 
gers over and over, and there have been great authors 
who couldn’t spell little simple words. Phonse, you 
will save Uncle David from being cheated by Pre- 
served Gage, won’t you ?” 


FLYING HILL FARM. 


19 


They were down in the kitchen - garden now, and 
Phonse was eating the great sour gooseberries, which 
they never tasted except when they “ dared ” each other, 
and he did not seem even to know that they were sour. 
He turned suddenly upon Cherry with flashing eyes. 

“ I don’t know why you are not ashamed of your- 
selves, you and Rhoda, picking and spying upon a fel- 
low! I used to think a good deal of you, Cherry East- 
man, but I’ve found out that you’re only just a girl ! 
If there’s anything that a fellow wants to keep still 
about, you have to talk it over. And I don’t know 
what you’re driving at, anyway.” Phonse’s voice, from 
being low and impressive in its suppressed anger, was 
becoming high-pitched and querulous. Cherry felt a 
certain relief in her distress at having him more like 
Phonse. “ If I did happen to be a little near-sighted 
I don’t know that it would be anybody’s business, or 
anything to be ashamed of. If a girl had any sense she 
wouldn’t talk to a fellow about being ashamed. You’re 
worse than Rhoda !” 

At this climax of accusation Cherry was quite over- 
whelmed. 

“If Uncle David had confidence in me, I don’t know 
why you need to worry. He told me to say just what 
I said to him, the truth, and so I shall. I thought at 
first that I wouldn’t go, anyway, if I had to run away, 
but now I will go, just to show you that I’m not a fool, 
or a baby, and you needn’t tell me what to say. I may 
run away afterwards — to sea. I think very likely I 
shall, and you’ll be to blame. Now you needn’t follow 
me,” as he went through the orchard gate. “ You’d 
better go over to Deacon Backup’s barn, as you like 
to, and see a poor pig tormented. That’s the kind of 
girl you are!” Cherry blushed with a guilty conscious- 
ness of her having had leanings towards the pig. 


20 


FLYING HILL FARM. 


“He’s quite an unusual pig, and it doesn’t torment 
him in the least,” she said, rallying to the defence of 
her tastes. 

Phonse went through the orchard gate in dignified 
silence, and lay down on the grass under the trees. 
Cherry was afraid he was very angry. His voice had 
not been really steady since he had said that “if a girl 
had any sense she wouldn’t talk to a fellow about being 
ashamed.” She would have liked to tell him about the 
rabbits that Ben had for him, but that would be fore- 
stalling Ben, who loved dearly to give people pleasant 
surprises. Moreover, it was doubtful in what spirit 
Phonse would receive any communication from her 
just now. She had never known him to be so thor- 
oughly angry with her before. His face was averted 
from her, but presently she discovered that he had 
taken out his old sketch-book and was drawing. When 
he could seek that consolation things were not going 
so very badly with Phonse. Cherry’s spirits, which had 
an Indian-rubber-like capacity for rebounding from 
pressure, arose to such heights that she again felt the 
allurements of the pig-educating process, which might 
still be going on in Deacon Backup’s barn. 

She didn’t go through the orchard, which was much 
the nearest way, but slipped around the corner of the 
carriage-house, and kept along by the stone wall, cast- 
ing uneasy glances back at Phonse as long as it was 
possible for him to see her. Not that she was really 
ashamed of going; she said to herself that she wouldn’t 
go if she were, but Phonse was so very severe upon 
people who aided or abetted in the education of pigs ; 
and to have Phonse scornful of one was an unpleasant 
turning of the tables. Besides, perhaps it wasn’t quite 
the thing. Rhoda wouldn’t go. 

Nevertheless, Cherry ran fast as soon as she was out 


THE pig raised himself on his hind-legs and shouldered arms. 



m 














r 1 





































FLYING IIILL FARM. 


21 


of Phonse’s sight, and arrived, breathless, at Deacon 
Backup’s barn just as the pig was concluding his fa- 
mous barrel feat. He was a young and lean porker, 
and with all his porcine stolidity there was something 
of the merry fellow in his eye. In spite of the satis- 
faction of his trainers he could not yet be said to be 
a strikingly accomplished pig ; it was with a grunting 
reluctance, and only after many urgent demands, that 
he raised himself upon his hind -legs; and whether 
he really shouldered arms, or merely allowed an old 
broom-handle to remain where it was put, was, like so 
many things in this world, a matter of opinion. 

Cherry was warmly greeted, for it was a great pleas- 
ure to Simmy Backup and Ben to display the results of 
their training; and there was much lamentation that she 
had not come in time to witness the barrel act. Gari- 
baldi steadfastly declined an encore, so she was obliged 
to take the testimony of Jacky Batterson, who was called 
upon as a disinterested spectator, and who declared it 
was “ better’n the circus,” and of Ben, who seriously 
avowed his opinion that Garibaldi “had a great future.” 

“ There’s another girl ! If I was you I wouldn’t 
have ’em. Garibaldi ’ll never do anything when they 
begin to come,” said Jacky Batterson, dispassionately. 

The other girl had pushed open the door at the op- 
posite end of the long barn from the scene of Gari- 
baldi’s feats. The space was of sufficient width to ad- 
mit her very slender person, but not wide enough for 
her very large hat, which she unconcernedly allowed 
to be crushed and torn by a projecting nail. She wore 
a skimpy and faded calico dress, and her complexion 
and eyes, and even her wispy hair, had the same faded 
and unprosperous appearance ; but in spite of this she 
had an air of vigor and determination, to which a de- 
cidedly prominent chin gave emphasis. 


22 


FLYING IIILL FARM. 


“I’m in the tin-peddlin’ business,” she announced. 
“ Have your folks got any rags ?” 

“ Who ever heard of a girl tin-peddler ?” said Jacky 
Batterson. “ Of course you can’t be one, Billy Gage. 
People wouldn’t buy of you. And you couldn’t get a 
license, anyway.” 

“ I guess I’ve got a right to get a livin’ the best way 
I can, now father’s took blind and paralyzed,” said the 
girl, defiantly. “ Squire Brewster, that owns the rail- 
road that run into father, has got to pay for it. He’s 
got to pay all the money he’s got. I expect nothin’ 
but what you’ll be town’s poor, for all you feel so big, 
Cherry Eastman ; and you wouldn’t be smart enough 
to go tin-peddlin’ like me. Have your folks got any 
rags ?” A sudden change of tone and a little anxious 
frown accompanied the last sentence. 

Cherry’s temper was a little disturbed. She did not 
see why Billy Gage should attack her so fiercely. They 
had once gone to school together, and whenever she had 
led in a spelling-match she had chosen Billy, who was 
a famous speller, the first one, ignoring both the claims 
of friendship and social distinctions which* influenced 
most of the girls. But since Cherry had been pro- 
moted to the Academy, and Billy’s school-days were 
over, they had seldom met. Cherry would have quite 
forgotten her if she had not occasionally seen her go- 
ing by with berries to sell ; or, sometimes, a string of 
trout from Roaring Brook, beside which she and her 
father lived in a little tumble-down house. But Billy 
looked so poor and forlorn now that Cherry’s anger 
was checked. “Loveday sold them last week to the 
new tin-peddler from Bayton. But we’ll save them 
for you after this, Billy.” 

The girl’s face softened a little, although she mur- 
mured an unpleasant opinion of people who traded 


FLYING HILL FARM. 


23 


with the new tin-peddler. “I’ll be round again week 
after next. I can’t come next week, ’cause I’m a-goin’ 
to court. I say, you can jest tell that girly-lookin’ 
cousin of yours that it won’t be a mite of use for him 
to tell lies about tellin’ father the time of day that 
afternoon that he was hurt, ’cause he was overheard. 
There’s a man come forrard that was goin’ by, and that 
heard him say it as plain as could be. He’s a stranger 
in Byerly, and was stoppin’ at the hotel, and as soon 
as he heard about it he come forrard to testify, jest 
’cause he didn’t want to see poor folks wronged.” 

The boys all hurried to the barn door to see Hilly 
mount her wagon. It was somewhat dilapidated, and 
old Jane looked bony and drooping. But the tin-ware 
was bright, and arranged with a view to display, and 
old Jane plucked up heart under Dilly’s encouraging 
chirrups, and went off in fine style, with a great clatter 
of tins. 

Hilly chirruped old Jane along at a lively pace so 
long as they were in the highway. As soon as they 
turned into the woods road, that led to the Roaring 
Brook settlement, she drew her up under the shade of 
a tree. 

“Now rest your bones, you poor old cretur !” she 
said. “We’re obligated to put on some style while 
we’re among folks ; but down here among the squir- 
rels and things that’s real well acquainted with us there 
ain’t no need. She was dretful pretty-spoken to me, 
Cherry Eastman Avas. I expect she thinks she’d better 
be, knowin’ what’s a-comin’. She wa’n’t never like some 
that treated me as if I was the dirt under their feet, 
and I’m kind of sorry I sarced her. I don’t hate them 
girls so bad, now I don’t go to school with ’em. I used 
to envy ? em the good times that never come nigh me. 
There was the time I coaxed father to let me go to 


24 


FLYING HILL FARM. 


Sunday-school. I calc’lated they’d let me go to the 
festival if I went every Sunday. The teacher she 
made a sight of me, and the girls was orfle polite, and 
kep’ passin’ me their Bibles ’n’ little books that they 
learned out of till I had a whole stack of ’em; but I 
ketched one of ’em snickerin’ behind my back. I was 
all dressed up, too, in old Mis’ Fickett’s red shawl and 
Cally Bumpus’s bonnet with a pink feather, and I don’t 
know what she was laughin’ at. And I sarced her, and 
the teacher told me to keep still, and I said ‘I guess 
I’m as good as you be !’ And if the lesson wa’n’t all 
about how when folks make a feast they’d ought to 
ask poor folks to it. And, thinks I, now there’ll be 
dif’runt doin’s in Byerly; they’ll be invitin’ the Roar- 
in’ Brook folks to their good times. But land! it didn’t 
seem to mean nothin’ at all. I guess they’ll treat me 
dif’runt when we get Squire Brewster’s money! But 
if — if anyhow it could happen that it wa’n’t honest for 
us to have the money ” ; the leaven in the lump of cov- 
etousness and envy that sometimes might seem to be 
all there was of poor Dilly’s half -savage nature w T as 
working strongly — “ if it wa’n’t right and didn’t b’long 
to us, I wouldn’t have it nohow!” 


CHAPTER III. 

“I don’t see why there’s any need of my going,” 
said Phonse, for about the tenth time. He was sitting 
on the porch, whittling to keep his courage up, while 
they waited for the carriage to be brought around. 
His heroism had apparently all evaporated with his 
anger against Cherry; more entirely than that, for he 
still maintained a dignified reserve towards her, and 






11 1 jjQW REST YOUR BONES, YOU FOOR OLD CRETUR. 

































































































FLYING HILL FARM. 


25 


Cherry was reduced to such a submissive state that she 
coutinued to do his examples for him without further 
protest, though with many pangs of conscience. Miss 
Peckett, the teacher, a slow and gentle little person, 
had not apparently been affected by Rhoda’s hints. 
Every day Cherry expected that Rhoda would feel it 
to be her duty to tell her suspicions, and sometimes she 
said to herself, desperately, that she wished she would. 
But Rhoda’s mind was quite taken up with the novel 
excitement of going to court. 

“ I should have told papa just why I wanted to go, 
if he had made any objection,” she said to Cherry. 
“ Indeed, I’ve tried to tell him two or three times that 
I knew a reason why Preserved Gage couldn't be tell- 
ing the truth, but he has always shut me up. He’s 
quite cross about our talking about it. He’s so wor- 
ried, poor papa, that he doesn’t stop to consider that I 
shouldn’t say anything about it, after he had bade me 
not, without a very good reason ; so I was determined 
to go. And if things don’t go right, if Phonse doesn’t 
own up, as he ought, I intend to hop right up in my 
seat, wherever I may be, and say, quite loud, Phonse 
can’t—” 

“ Oh, Rhoda, do keep still !” cried Cherry. “ Phonse 
feels dreadfully about going; he’s as pale as can be this 
morning. It wouldn’t take anything to make him say 
he wouldn’t go, and make a scene, or run away, or some- 
thing dreadful.” 

And Rhoda obeyed the monition, and kept still. She 
was full of suppressed excitement, and it was quite evi- 
dent that she had planned to be the heroine of the oc- 
casion. With all her quiet primness Rhoda had a de- 
cided taste for being the centre of attraction. She had 
indulged in many vivid mental pictures of the scene in 
the court -room when she should arise and make her 


26 


FLYING HILL FARM. 


disclosure. RJioda was not hard-hearted or unpitying, 
but she had a strong conviction that it would be much 
better for people to do as she thought they ought to ; 
if they did not, they must expect to be punished. She 
meant to do right, and she forgot that there might be 
errors of judgment on her part — a characteristic very 
common among fifteen - year - olds, and not unknown 
among older people. 

Cherry was not going to court with any pleasant 
anticipations. She was anxious about Phonse ; she 
could not forget what Dilly Gage had said about a 
man who was going to testify that he heard Phonse 
tell her father what time it was. Perhaps it was a 
story that Dilly Gage had “ made up.” She had racked 
her brains to remember whether Dilly was truthful at 
school. The generally accepted idea in the town was 
that all the people in the Roaring Brook settlement 
were destitute of “a taste exact for actual fact,” but 
Cherry had a lingering impression that Dilly Gage 
could be expected to tell the truth. She had passed a 
sleepless night — perhaps the very first one in her life — 
and there were dark circles about her eyes as she came 
out onto the porch, in her pretty white dress and her 
hat with a wild-rose wreath. This was the first time, 
too, that there had been not the least satisfaction in 
putting on that hat. 

Rhoda w r as looking very serious and preoccupied. 
She was rehearsing over and over in her mind the dra- 
matic sensation w’hich she expected to create in court. 
She was not quite certain whether she ought not to 
preface her announcement by some form of address to 
the audience or the judge, such as “Ladies and gentle- 
men,” or “Your Honor.” For a week she had been 
gathering all the information possible about the pro- 
ceedings in court, but her ideas were still somewhat 


FLYING HILL FARM. 


27 


vague. She had decided that she should be summoned 
to the witness-stand and obliged to take an oath. She 
thought that would be quite thrilling, and was sure 
that she should not feel in the least abashed. But 
there was one little difficulty that troubled her ; that 
was the possibility, just the bare possibility, that she 
was mistaken ; that Phonse was only afflicted by a 
peculiar kind of near-sightedness. Rhoda was very 
conscientious about telling the exact truth. She had 
driven Phonse to exasperation by bringing him old 
books of grandpa’s, for which she had burrowed deeply 
into musty and dusty piles in the attic, and in which 
the print was very small, and rendered almost illegible 
by time, to see if he could read them. 

“ I don’t know what Rhoda’s up to now, but I ex- 
pect you and she will soon be able to prove, between 
you, that I can’t read,” he had said fiercely to Cherry. 
And Cherry had gone and quarrelled miserably about 
the books with Rhoda, who was especially aggravating 
in her strong sense of rectitude, and threw out myste- 
rious hints of the way in which she meant to save the 
day for the railroad company. 

“I don’t see why there’s any need of my going,” 
Phonse said again, as Rhoda stepped nimbly to the 
back seat of the carriage. “ If Preserved Gage has been 
paralyzed by the accident the company will have to 
pay, whether he’s blind or not. Besides, who is going 
to prove that he may not have grown blind since that 
day, if he wasn’t then ?” 

“ If he’s pretending about one he probably is about 
the other,” said Rhoda. “ No one will believe people 
who pretend at all.” 

Uncle David was attending to the horses, and made 
no answer. He would not be beguiled into saying any- 
thing about the matter ; although he had evidently 


28 


FLYING HILL FARM. 


given up in despair the attempt to keep the young 
people from talking about it. Cherry gathered from 
his manner that he expected Preserved Gage to tri- 
umph; she wondered whether he had heard of Dilly 
Gage’s assertion that a man was to testify to overhear- 
ing the conversation between her father and Phonse ; 
she thought perhaps Ben had told him; but in fact 
Ben had been too much absorbed in Simmy Backup’s 
pig to listen to Dilly’s conversation, it not having oc- 
curred to him that it could be of the least importance. 

Cherry felt irritated against Rhoda for looking so 
complacent and happy, but in truth Rhoda was not 
without a pang of pity when she looked at Phonse’s 
pale and dejected face, and only fortified herself by 
reflecting that it was much better for him to be told 
of it. Cherry, too, really ought to be brought to a real- 
izing sense of the evils of deceit. She was not sure 
that there would be any occasion for her to tell of that 
other worse deceit of Phonse’s, in which Cherry was a 
partner, but if it should be necessary she did not mean 
to shrink from the painful duty. She called it a pain- 
ful duty to herself, and if she had an underlying satis- 
faction in the thought that her own virtue would shine 
very brightly by contrast in the eyes of a great room- 
ful of people, it was probably only a vague feeling of 
which she was hardly conscious. 

Chelmsborough was a most delightful town, with a 
bustling little main street, which had on one side a 
common where boys played leap-frog, and where there 
was always a great flower-show and a great baby-show 
in fine weather, and on the other side a row of fascinat- 
ing shops, from Meadows & Hill’s, at one end, with 
its windows -full of loveliest laces and ribbons and 
muslins, to Miss Cratchett’s toy and candy shop at the 
other end, where there was a little jingling bell on the 


FLYING IIILL FARM. 


29 


door, and when you went in no living thing was visible 
for a long time except a tiny dog, exactly like a toy 
himself, all fluff and lungs, who was supposed to keep 
the shop and be a terror to evil-doers. 

It seemed sad and strange to have come to Chelms- 
borough with no interest in the shops. Ben, who had 
too many pressing interests at home to care to go to 
court, and who was “afraid, anyway, that he should 
pitch into anybody who tried to make out that old 
Gage wasn’t a fraud,” had, indeed, sent for some fish- 
hooks of a new-fashioned kind, and for the Trapper's 
Guide from the book-store, but Uncle David would 
not stop for them now, and it was doubtful whether 
any one would remember them again. 

The court-house was in a green square; a low build- 
ing, with elm branches interlaced above it, and all 
about it so quiet and drowsy that it seemed as if Jus- 
tice, poised above the door, in spite of her uncomfort- 
able position and the weight of her brass scales, might 
have gone to sleep. 

Rhoda felt a disappointing conviction that there was 
not going to be any one there, but, once inside, the cor- 
ridor was found to be full of men talking in low tones; 
and two or three wagons drove up and deposited their 
freight at the door — chiefly Byerly farmers, some with 
their “ women - folks,” in Sunday attire and with a 
holiday air. Mrs. Deacon Backup even had a “ pink 
posy ” made of pinks and southernwood, as if she were 
going to church. 

Dilly Gage came driving up triumphantly in a high 
top buggy, with “ little Ketchum,” as Uncle David 
called him, her father’s lawyer from Winfield. He 
was a very small man, with a bald head as round as a 
bullet, and a shrewd face with a little mocking smile 
always lurking about the corners of the mouth, which 


30 


FLYING HILL FARM. 


was supposed to be very disconcerting to a witness. 
Dilly had borrowed Cally Bumpus’s bonnet, with its 
perennial pink feather, as on the memorable occasion 
when she went to Sunday-school, and her pride in it 
was in nowise lessened by the fact that velvet is not 
a popular wear in June ; and old Mrs. Fickett’s red 
shawl testified to the neighborly feeling which pre- 
vailed in the Roaring Brook settlement. Dilly’s face 
showed small traces of doubts or misgivings ; she was 
evidently convinced that the day of her triumph over 
“folks that had thought she wa’n’t no more ’n the dirt 
under their feet ” had almost come. She returned a 
mocking smile and a little toss of her head to Phonse’s 
quite unconscious but very fierce scowl. 

The court- room gradually filled. The green curtains 
were lowered to shut out the heat of the sun, and an 
air of solemnity prevailed. Cherry thought the jury 
looked astonishingly easy and indifferent. She had 
heard with surprise a man who seemed to be a lawyer 
say to another, “Only an action for damages against 
a railroad.” There were two Byerly men on the jury. 
Deacon Backup was one, and Cherry saw him with a 
sudden sense of security. He was such a good man ; 
no injustice could triumph, she thought, when so good 
a man as Deacon Backup had anything to do with the 
matter. The other side had not challenged him, al- 
though little Ketchum knew well that he was a friend 
as well as neighbor of Uncle David’s. No one was 
afraid that Deacon Backup would be anything but 
true, though it were to his own hurt. 

But yet, after all, it might be easier for Phonse if 
there were no friends and neighbors there ; he might 
be less ashamed. 

There were four or five doctors. Dr. Lunt, of Great 
Warrington, who was eminent in his profession, Cherry 


FLYING HILL FARM. 


31 


heard it whispered, was for the defence; but, then, 
there was Dr. Spence, of Winfield, of almost equal rep- 
utation, who was to testify in Preserved Gage’s favor. 
And Dr. Wallace, their own Byerly doctor, who had 
been doubtful, was now reported to have declared the 
tin-peddler a humbug. The preliminaries seemed in- 
terminable. When at last they came to the deposition 
of Preserved Gage, so clear a case seemed made out 
that Cherry thought the railroad company might as 
well pay him the money without more ado. The dis- 
tinguished doctor from Winfield testified that the tin- 
peddler was almost totally blind, and paralyzed in one 
side of his body beyond all hope of recovery, and these 
afflictions were undoubtedly due to his having been 
struck by the train on the Byerly Branch Railroad on 
the afternoon of March 24th. Then several witnesses 
testified that the keeper had failed to wave his red 
flag, being at that moment engaged in thrashing Tripp 
Watkins, who had “called him names.” 

The defence simply declared that Preserved Gage 
was, beyond a few scratches, quite unhurt, and was 
feigning his afflictions, of which he had not complained 
until a day or two after the accident. And to prove 
that he had not, as he claimed, been immediately ren- 
dered almost sightless, Eli Perigo was brought forward 
to testify that he had told him, at the cross-road, that 
it was “just nineteen minutes past three when he came 
by the Bay berry church.” 

Rhoda had begun to feel that their part in the affair 
was disappointingly small; it seemed unlikely that the 
testimony of a boy like Phonse would have much 
weight, and she thought all the signs pointed to Pre- 
served Gage’s triumph. Dilly thought so, too; she had 
testified with quite a thrilling effect how her father, 
when he came home that day, had cried out to her: 


32 


FLYING HILL FARM. 


“Come and help me, Dilly! It’s all dark ahead of 
me ! I can’t hardly see a mite.” 

It was quite evident that Dilly’s testimony made 
an impression upon the audience. The jury looked so 
provokingly impassive that it was impossible to judge 
whether they were affected by it or not. 

After Eli Perigo came another physician, who testi- 
fied that paralysis occurring nearly three months after 
the accident could not by any means be proven to be 
a result of it. And then he described the disease in 
learned and technical terms, especially that phase of it 
with which the tin-peddler was afflicted, and testified 
strongly to his opinion that it was not caused by the 
accident. And now things seemed to promise favora- 
bly for the defence. How perplexed that jury must be ! 
Cherry, who had a leaning towards women’s rights 
views, caught herself indulging a hope that they might 
never be so far attained to, in her time, that she should 
have to be a jury-woman. And now the defence rested 
its case, and there came an intermission for dinner. 
Would they never get to Phonse ? Cherry began to 
hope that they would settle the case without him. 
There was a long and tedious dinner at the hotel, 
where it was astonishing to see Uncle David eat as 
calmly, and with apparently as good an appetite, as 
if nothing whatever were happening, and still more as- 
tonishing to see the lawyers and doctors all hobnobbing 
and cracking jokes together, as if they had not just been 
giving each other sharpest thrusts, and implying that 
those who disagreed with them were either fools or vil- 
lains! No one at the table seemed to have any anxiety or 
personal feeling about the case except Dilly Gage, and 
she could eat three kinds of pie and ice-cream, but “made 
faces,” whenever an opportunity offered, at Phonse. 
The jury, all by themselves in an inner room, seemed to 


FLYING HILL FARM. 


33 


be having the best of times. Every time a waiter opened 
the door a roar of laughter was heard, and once Cher- 
ry caught sight of Deacon Backup’s face almost apo- 
plectic with laughter. It seemed to her very heart- 
less and unsympathetic to be taking things so lightly, 
and her faith even in Deacon Backup was a little 
shaken. 

But back in the court-room once more, everybody 
w r as grave and solemn again, and the first evidence 
which the claimant’s counsel offered in rebuttal was 
the written testimony of Preserved Gage that “one 
Alphonse Brewster, nephew of Squire David Brewster, 
had told him what time it was. 

And then the counsel for the defence called Phonse 
to the witness-stand. 

“ No, I didn’t tell him,” said Phonse, after he had 
taken the oath, and looking very pale and nervous. He 
looked graceful and elegant, too, even more than usual, 
Cherry thought ; and she thought, also, that his little 
air of distinction, as well as his height, made him look 
older than he was. “ He asked me what time it was, 
but I didn’t tell him.” 

“ Relate the circumstance as you remember it,” said 
the lawyer, who was their own lawyer, Philipson, of 
Byerly, a kindly old man whom they had known all 
their lives. 

“ I was sitting on the fence, whittling out an alder 
whistle,” said Phonse, “ and I told him to look for him- 
self, I wasn’t going to be bothered with him. And just 
then I saw Chissy Fenwick coming after me to go fish- 
ing, and I didn’t think anything more about Preserved 
Gage. I didn’t know he’d been hurt or anything. I 
didn’t get down from the fence; I didn’t go near his 
wagon.” 

“ That is all,” said Lawyer Philipson. 

3 


34 


FLYING HILL FARM. 


Bat Lawyer Ketchum promptly recalled Phonse for 
cross-examination. 

“You say you didn’t tell the old man what time it 
was ?” said the lawyer. 

“No, sir, I didn’t,” said Phonse, firmly. 

“Aren’t you in the habit of telling a man what time 
it is when he asks you ?” 

Phonse hesitated. 

“ No, I’m not,” he said at length. 

“ Queer for an amiable boy to refuse so slight a fa- 
vor as that, isn’t it ?” said the lawyer. 

“ I’m not an amiable boy,” said Phonse, with some 
eagerness in his voice. “Anybody will tell you that.” 
And a little titter ran over the room, promptly sup- 
pressed by the judge. 

“You didn’t look at the clock, did you? It seems 
to me natural for a boy to look at a clock when he is 
asked what time it is by it. You were sitting on the 
fence with your back to the clock, and you didn’t turn 
your head ?” 

“ I don’t know whether I looked at the clock or not,” 
said Phonse, slowly. “I must have turned my head, 
because I saw Chissy Fenwick coming across the field.” 

“ Oh, he was coming from that direction, was he ?” 
said the lawyer, with an air of having made a discov- 
ery. And Cherry could see that Uncle David looked 
annoyed; he evidently thought Phonse need not have 
made that admission ; and yet he had told him to tell 
the exact truth. “ Then, of course, you had turned to 
look at the clock when you saw him. Now jog your 
memory a little ; don’t you think it highly probable, 
since you looked at the clock, that you told him what 
time it was ?” 

“ No, sir,” said Phonse, “ I didn’t tell him what time 
it was.” 














































FLYING HILL FARM. 


35 


There was a calm positiveness about Phonse’s denial 
which Cherry thought must impress every one. 

“Now, come, come!” said little Ketchum, with an 
easy, affable air: “Tell us just how it was and save 
time. I am going to put a man onto the stand” — the 
lawyer waved his hand towards a young man whom 
Cherry had seen at the table in the hotel, and whom 
she recognized as a commercial traveller who sold 
goods occasionally at the Byerly store — “a man who 
will testify that he was driving along the road while 
the tin-peddler on his wagon had stopped, and you 
were sitting on the fence, whittling, and he distinctly 
heard you say, ‘ It’s nineteen minutes past three by the 
clock, but that old clock is never right !” 

Phonse started. Cherry saw him ; every one saw 
him, and there was a decided sensation in the court- 
room. 


CHAPTER IV. 

Riioda felt that the time had come to make the 
great sensation which she had planned, but the con- 
scientious difficulty, which seemed slight at first, had 
now grown too great to be overcome. The solemnity 
of the oath which the witnesses were obliged to take 
had impressed her, as Sidney Smith remarked that it 
did impress some people, with the idea that there were 
two kinds of truth. Sometimes she felt quite certain 
that what she wished to tell was true, but in view of 
that awful oath the slight possibility of mistake loomed 
to a great size. What if Phonse had only a peculiar 
near-sightedness with reference to clocks and watches? 
And to say what one thought would probably have no 
effect whatever. So Rhoda deliberated and dared not, 


36 


FLYING HILL FARM. 


while the lawyer paused, evidently gratified at the ef- 
fect he had produced. People were looking at each 
other all over the court-room, and Cherry even caught 
a flickering smile on the face of one of the impassive 
jurymen. 

“ Now you see you had merely forgotten. I thought 
if I should jog your memory a little it would be all 
right,” said Lawyer Ketchum, with an easy air of hav- 
ing settled the matter. “ Now you are willing to ad- 
mit that you said, ‘It’s nineteen minutes past three, but 
that old clock is never right,’ aren’t you ?” 

“ No, I am not. I didn’t say it,” said Phonse, but his 
tone was slow and hesitating. He looked about the au- 
dience, and then turned his gaze to the jury, and then 
it slowly wandered back to Uncle David’s anxious face. 
Every one was becoming impatient ; it was evident 
that Phonse had not made a favorable impression. The 
lawyer was apparently satisfied with this, and was about 
to tell him to step down, when Phonse straightened 
himself up, and an expression came into his face which 
Rlioda thought, with amazement, made him look quite 
unlike Phonse. Cherry remembered to have seen him 
look like that once before; it was when Tripp Watkins, 
the village bully, was tormenting little Caleb Backup. 
Phonse was fond of little Caleb, as he was of all chil- 
dren, and he had thrashed the bully; it was quite won- 
derful, for he was delicate and hated to fight, but he 
had tripped him up with great agility, and the bully, 
being heavy and clumsy, was at a disadvantage which 
he could not overcome. And before he thrashed Tripp 
Watkins Cherry remembered that Phonse looked just 
as he looked now. 

“ If you want to know just why I didn’t tell Pre- 
served Gage what time it was I’ll tell you,” he said, in 
a resolute voice: “It was because I can’t tell time.” 


FLYING IIILL FARM. 


37 


There was another titter — this time a loader one — and 
only half -smothered exclamations of incredulity all 
over the room. 

“ Oh, it’s true ! it’s true !” cried a voice, which rang 
out clear and strong above the noise. Cherry had 
leaped upon her seat, and, with her face in a flame, was 
waving her hand frantically, as they did in the Byerly 
grammar-school when they wished to be heard. “ It’s 
quite true! I found it out long ago, and Rhoda knows 
it too, but I — I knew he didn’t like to have us know it, 
and so I never — ” 

There was a sharp rapping for order, and Cherry, 
who had been carried quite out of herself, came back to 
reality, conscious only, as she afterwards confided to 
Ben, of a strong wish that “ the earth might open and 
let her go through to China.” It was evident that she 
had done a dreadful thing; Lawyer Ketchum was very 
angry, and the judge said, in a very severe tone, some- 
thing which she did not catch. And Uncle David said, 
in his sternest way, “ I shouldn’t have allowed you to 
come if I hadn’t supposed you knew how to behave 
with ordinary propriety.” And from behind Cherry 
came a voice — a woman’s voice — calling her “ a bold 
little piece.” 

“ Oh, how could you do it ?” whispered Rhoda. 
“ Every one is looking at us !” 

She really felt very much aggrieved at Cherry’s ac- 
tion. She reflected, with complacency, that she had 
had too much common -sense to do such a thing, al- 
though it had occurred to her. If she had, she would 
have done it in the right time, not after Phonse had 
told and there was no need of it. It was just like 
Cherry to be so blundering. Lawyer Ketchum turned 
to Phonse with his most sarcastic smile. 

“So you can’t tell time, eh? Well, that is an idea, 


38 


FLYING HILL FARM. 


isn’t it ! a boy of your age ! You can’t read numbers, 
I take it — not even as far as twelve. And that was 
another of the things about which you’re forgetful, 
isn’t it? You didn’t say so at first.” 

“I didn’t say so at first because — because a fellow 
doesn’t like to own that he’s queer like that, and can’t 
do a thing that everybody else can do, that little bits 
of children can do.” 

Phonse was very patient and dignified, although he 
scowled frightfully. “ But I can do some things that 
other people can’t. I can draw—” 

“ You say you can’t read numbers,” interrupted Law- 
yer Ketchum. “ Didn’t you ever go to school ?” 

“ Of course I go to school,” answered Phonse, “ and 
I didn’t say I couldn’t read numbers. I can if I stop 
to think a while, but the spaces in between on a clock 
bother me. Of course I could add ’em up if I wanted 
to, but it takes me a good while, and it plagues me; it 
makes me ill.” 

Phonse’s voice was growing shrill and high-keyed. 
It was evidently a great strain, though perhaps no one 
but Cherry knew how great, to confess his defect be- 
fore all these people — for Phonse, who had so much 
vanity, and never could bear to “own up” to any- 
thing ! 

Cherry stole a glance at Uncle David. She wanted 
him to appreciate the sacrifice that Phonse was mak- 
ing, and she was afraid he would not. She could not 
discover anything in his face except the deepest per- 
plexity. She had often heard him say that he “ didn’t 
know what to make of that boy,” and she could fancy 
that he was saying it to himself now with a deeper 
meaning than ever. 

Lawyer Ketchum hesitated for a moment, evidently 
in doubt as to what line of questioning would soonest 


FLYING II1LL FARM. 


39 


confound the witness. Utter contempt and ridicule of 
the witness’s claim seemed to him the reasonable and 
proper course, but he had been quick enough to detect 
a rising current of sympathy with Phonse among his 
hearers. It might be strange, it might be ridiculous, 
but the boy had an air of simple truthfulness which, 
as none knew better than cunning Lawyer Ketchum, 
carried weight with it. Moreover, the story bore a 
probability of truth, from the fact that, as Lawyer 
Ketchum afterwards admitted, no one would have “ put 
the boy up to tell such an absurd thing, and he never 
would have thought of it himself.” 

But the fact that the lawyer immediately believed 
Phonse to be telling the truth did not prevent him from 
trying to force some contradictory or damaging ad- 
mission from him. 

“You say you go to school. Do you study arith- 
metic ?” he demanded, again opening fire upon Phonse, 
with the air of being able to annihilate him in a very 
short time. 

“ Yes, sir, I study arithmetic,” answered Phonse. 

“ In the lowest class ?” 

“No, sir; Pm in the second class.” 

“ With the little boys, I suppose?” 

“No, sir; the boys are about as old as I am.” 

“ Are you at the foot of the class ?” 

“No, sir; I’m number seven,” answered Phonse. 
“ There are six above me, and eight below me.” 

“ Ah-h! then you seem to be a fairly good scholar 
in arithmetic. Been through fractions, I suppose, and 
perhaps square root? Yes? And yet you can’t tell 
time ! Ha, ha ! Well, that is a great joke.” 

“I’ve been through cube root,” announced Phonse, 
calmly, “ and through some of the hardest parts of 
C ’s mental arithmetic.” 


40 


FLYING IIILL FARM. 


“You can solve difficult arithmetical problems, and 
yet you can’t read the numerals on a clock?” 

“I can read ’em after a while,” explained Phonse ; 
it’s putting them together that puzzles me. And then 
I don’t do the examples ; Cherry does them. She’s 
my cousin, you know — Cherry Eastman. She’s an or- 
fle square girl; she’s the squarest girl that ever was.” 
Phonse looked around with his fiercest frown, as if he 
were challenging every one to doubt it. And she hasn’t 
wanted to do my arithmetic for me; she says it’s mean 
and cheating; but Pve made her. She’s done it ever 
since I was a little fellow, and that’s how Pve got along. 
She’s written the explanations all out for me. If I’d 
tried hard I could have learned, I suppose ; but such 
things are too stupid when a fellow can draw as I 
can.” 

“ Oh, Cherry, what will you do? It is dreadful that 
he should have to say it right out before everybody !” 
whispered Rhoda. “And people who don’t know us 
may think it is I. I think he ought to have said that it 
was the large one with the turn-up nose!” 

But Cherry was almost forgetting to be ashamed 
in her pride in and sympathy for Phonse. And the 
burden seemed rolled off, like Christian’s, with con- 
fession. Every one knew, and not she but Phonse had 
told! And how bravely he had shielded her. She 
wanted to jump up again and cry out that he had taken 
too much of the blame, that she had begun to help him 
too much when he was too little to realize that it was 
not honest; but the terrors of her first public utterance 
were still strong enough upon her to prevent her from 
repeating it. Uncle David would not look at her ; she 
was not sure whether she most wished or feared that 
he would. But his eyes were fixed upon Phonse. 

Lawyer Ketclium was sneering at and “badgering ” 


FLYING HILL FARM. 


41 


Phonse, until first the defendant’s counsel and then 
the judge interposed; and then Phonse was allowed to 
step down, and Lawyer Ketchum put upon the stand 
the commercial traveller, a young man with a most hon- 
est face and air, who stoutly affirmed that he had heard 
Phonse say to the tin-peddler, “ It’s nineteen minutes 
past three, but that old clock is never right !” He 
positively identified Phonse ; he said he observed him 
because he was so handsome, and could have picked 
him out among a thousand. He also observed him be- 
cause he was making an alder whistle, just such as he 
used to make when he was a boy, and he hadn’t seen 
or thought of One for as much as twenty years. When 
he drove by there was no other boy in sight. 

And then the testimony was said to be all in, and 
each lawyer made a short argument for his client, in 
which he strenuously claimed every particle of proof 
for his side, and demolished the evidence upon the other 
side until it was quite wonderful that any one should 
think there had been any. Lawyer Ketchum said that 
the claim of a boy of thirteen that he could not tell 
time was too absurd to dwell upon. He was willing 
to rely upon the clear and concise evidence of his wit- 
ness, who had overheard him, to offset that. But he 
laid the greatest stress upon the medical testimony, 
which he claimed had proved beyond the shadow of a 
doubt that the terrible condition to which his client 
had been reduced was the direct result of the accident. 
Lawyer Philipson was even briefer, but he claimed that 
Preserved Gage had been proven guilty of a scheme 
to extort money from the railroad on false pretences ; 
he had been able to go home entirely unaided; he had 
told no one that day that his eyesight was affected ex- 
cept his daughter, whose testimony should not have 
been allowed; and it was quite evident that he had 


42 


FLYING HILL FARM. 


been able to see what time it was by a clock on a 
church-steeple forty rods distant. He thought there 
was no doubt that Phonse would be believed rather 
than the strange witness, who, he strongly insinuated, 
had been hired to testify. And then he dwelt lightly 
upon the fact that Phonse was known in Byerly as a 
boy of peculiar organization, of talent in some direc- 
tions, and somewhat defective in others. Then the 
judge said a few words to the jury, by which Cherry 
was surprised to find that he did not tell them in the 
least what he thought about it, but only what the law 
was, and what kind of evidence they were to regard as 
weighty, and what not ; and, altogether, he seemed to 
think about as much of one side as of the other ; and 
Cherry wondered how, if the judge couldn’t make up 
his mind, the jury were going to ! And then she grew 
very much mortified, and felt all eyes upon her again, 
for he said that they were to entirely ignore any irreg- 
ular communications or expressions of sympathy from 
the audience, and to give no credence whatever to any 
testimony that was not given on the witness-stand un- 
der the sanctity of an oath. Cherry felt herself the 
guiltiest person in the universe; it was so terrible that 
people should be openly told not to believe her! But 
after he had got through talking to the jury, and they 
had retired, looking just as matter-of-fact and impassive 
as ever, what did the judge do but look down at her, 
over his uncommonly round and very judicial-looking 
glasses, and smile most benignly. Every one saw it, 
and Cherry was quite consoled, for he wouldn’t have 
done that, she thought, if he believed she had told a 
lie. In this queer place no one, it seemed, said what 
he thought, and it appeared to Cherry that the law was 
only an arrangement for twisting and tangling things 
up so that no one could understand them. 


FLYING IIILL FARM. 


43 


With a kind of awful wonder she looked at the com- 
mercial traveller who had told a lie. How had he dared 
to do it after taking that solemn oath ? Probably he 
had been hired to do it, as Lawyer Philipson had sug- 
gested. She believed it was “an orfle wicked world,” 
as Loveday was always saying, and she wished she 
were safely back at Flying Hill Farm, where at least 
people were not so incomprehensibly bad, and it was, 
after all, much easier to know how one ought to be- 
have than it was in a court-room. 

People were walking about the court-room and talk- 
ing. Uncle David had left them in their seats and 
was talking with some friends. They all saw with in- 
dignation that he was just as affable with little Ketch- 
um as with any one else. 

“If I were a little stronger I’d punch his head,” said 
Phonse; the first words he had uttered since he left the 
witness-stand. “Ben can do it for me, anyway; he’s 
only a little fellow : and Ben will.” 

Rhoda had been reflecting deeply, and she now said, 
with a grand air: 

“The trouble with you and Cherry is that you are 
too personal. You must try not to be so personal. 
And whatever you feel about people you must pretend 
that you don’t feel anyway. That is the way to be 
polite, like society people.” 

“You got that stuff out of a book, you know you 
did,” growled Phonse, who was in one of his worst 
humors. “ You’re as bad as a manners-book, anyway. 
Cherry and I don’t want to be humbugs.” 

It was “ we ” again with Phonse ; he had apparently 
forgiven her ; and she was so glad that she had refrained 
from expressing her opinion that it was a great pity to 
dislike people, because it made one so unhappy. She 
couldn’t really see how Phonse could help disliking 


44 


FLYING HILL FARM. 


Lawyer Ketchum ; and though the desire to punch his 
head was certainly not a laudable one, and his manner 
of expressing himself not adapted to polite society, 
Cherry could not find it in her heart to blame him 
much. 

People came up and stared at them, and a few who 
were brave enough not to be deterred by Phonse’s 
frowning aspect asked them some questions. 

Hilly Gage, at the other side of the room, was hold- 
ing quite a reception. She chattered freely with all 
questioners, and was evidently arousing much sympa- 
thy. Her high, shrill tones rose above all the noises of 
the room. Hilly always talked to the squirrels and 
partridges in the Roaring Brook woods when she could 
find no more satisfactory audience ; to the swallows in 
the eaves, and especially to Cally Bumpus’s cat. Now, 
in her excitement, and with this large and apparently 
appreciative audience, she was in her element. 

“Land! ain’t that young one got a gift of gab!” they 
heard one old countrywoman say. “ Seems as if she’d 
been wound up so ’s ’t she could run on forever : and I 
expect it’s every word true. If her father’s a-makin’ 
it she don’t know, and she’d be dretful likely to.” 

“I don’t think that girl ought to be allowed to go 
on like that,” said Rhoda, as soon as the woman had 
passed them. “ Of course it can’t make any difference 
about the verdict now, but I know she is telling all 
sorts of 'wrong stories about us. She’s perfectly hor- 
rid, and she ought to be put out of the hall.” Rhoda’s 
little doll-like face was all aflame with anger. 

“ Whatever you feel about people you must pretend 
that you don’t feel anyway,” mimicked Phonse, catch- 
ing Rhoda’s soft thin notes with provoking exactness. 

“Of course that Roaring Brook set are not like 
other people,” said Rhoda. “No one can help being 


FLYING HILL FARM. 


45 


perfectly disgusted with them, and it doesn’t matter if 
one does show that one is. How ridiculous it would 
be if those Gages should get all that money! They 
wouldn’t know what to do with it. Twenty thousand 
dollars they claim now.” 

“ I shouldn’t wonder if they found out what to do 
with it before we found out what to do without it,” 
said Cherry, sagely. 

And then Phonse said he “ wasn’t going to stay there 
to be made a monkey-show of any longer,” and went 
off to a secluded corner where he could look out of a 
window where there was a glimpse through green 
boughs of the stuffed birds in the museum which was 
Chelmsborough’s pride. 

The first half-hour of comment and speculation after 
the retirement of the jury had passed very quickly, but 
now time was dragging heavily. Many people had 
left and others were waiting “only just five or ten min- 
utes more.” A man was heard to base his opinion 
that they wouldn’t be out much longer on the fact that 
“Bill Judkins, one of the jurymen, had got to get in 
his hay, and he’d fetch ’em to time.” 

And apparently his faith in Bill Judkins was not 
misplaced, for very soon after there was a commotion 
about the judge’s bench, and a call to order, and the jury 
came in. The crowd would not be quiet, and the fore- 
man’s answer to the questions asked him failed to reach 
the audience until it was repeated from lip to lip, in 
the midst of a whirlwind of mingled approval and cen- 
sure. 

The claimant, Preserved Gage, w r as awarded dam- 
ages to the amount of one dollar. 

As soon as it was fully understood there was a cheer 
for the railroad company. It seemed to Cherry that 
every one wanted to shake hands with Uncle David 


46 


FLYING HILL FAKM. 


and with them, even some of those who had apparent- 
ly been on the tin-peddler’s side. 

“Why should they award him any damages?” said 
Rhoda. “It sounds as if they believed in him a 
little.” 

“ It’s a matter of form. He was struck by the train, 
you know,” said Uncle David, who was actually show- 
ing his satisfaction a little. 

“It’s jest a-jeerin’ at folks!” Dilly was crying out. 
“They hadn’t no business to do it.” She was almost 
hysterical, and some kindly disposed women were try- 
ing to calm her. “Poor folks can’t never get their 
rights, and it ain’t a mite of use for ’em to try. Oh, 
how be I a-goin’ to tell father? If ’twas anybody but 
them Brewsters I could have bore it better — with their 
white dresses every day, and like enough sashes, too. 
But I’ll pay ’em up yet! They’d better look out!” 

The court-room was speedily cleared, and Dilly’s 
excited threats were lost in the general commotion. 
It was a great relief to get into the carriage and be 
whirled away from the clamor in the peaceful twilight 
atmosphere. 

Uncle David put his hand upon Phonse’s shoulder. 
“You did well; you did bravely, Phonse !” he said. 
And that was as much from Uncle David as a whole 
volume of extravagant praise from any one else. “And 
you, Cherry, perhaps I was a little hard upon you. Of 
course you hadn’t the least right to say anything; you 
ought to have known that ; but since you wished to 
help my case — and I think it did have an effect upon 
the jury.” 

“I didn’t think of the case then, at all, Uncle Da- 
vid,” said Cherry, candidly. “ I was afraid they were 
going to think that Phonse was telling a lie.” 

It was delightful to see the anxious look gone from 














‘“poor folks can’t never get their rights.’” 















FLYING HILL FARM. 47 

Uncle David’s face; and Phonse, too, looked tired but 
happy. 

Suddenly the top-buggy in which Lawyer Ketchum 
was driving Dilly Gage home dashed by them. The 
horse was going fast, but Dilly thrust a tempestuous 
face out, and called: 

“You’ll think of that lie you told again, Phonse 
Brewster, see if you don’t ! You may laugh at me 
now, but I’ll pay you up. You just wait!” 

And Dilly was gone, with Cally Bumpus’s feather 
blowing out of the carriage like a triumphal pennant. 

“She makes me think of the song that Philander 
sings about the ‘Gypsy’s Curse,”’ said Cherry, too 
happy to feel very sorry for poor Dilly. 

But dejection and sullenness had fallen upon Phonse 
like a cloud. 

“You don’t mind what she says, Phonse?” cried 
Cherry. 


CHAPTER Y. 

Loveday had prepared fried chicken and pop-overs 
for supper. She confided to Philander, when he came 
in to fill the wood-box, her opinion that “ if things had 
gone right ’twas a time for feastin’, and if they’d gone 
wrong good victuals was real kind of heart’nin’ and 
consolin’. And there ain’t anything that our children 
set by like fried chicken and pop-overs.” 

“Folks that goes to law puts me in mind of them 
cats in the story that got a monkey to divide their 
cheese for ’em; he jest ate up their cheese, and there 
they was,” said Philander. He was almost preternat- 
u rally tall and gaunt, and he had so large an Adam’s- 
apple that the children never ceased to wonder that it 


48 


FLYING HILL FARM. 


did not choke him. But the great charms of Philan- 
ders appearance were his ear-rings — barbaric hoops of 
gold — and the tattooings upon his arm ; the latter he 
never displayed except in very depressingly stormy 
weather, or as a particular reward of merit. There 
were anchors and chains, hearts and wheels and com- 
passes, a rising sun and a new moon, and P. J. Q. A. F., 
for Philander John Quincy Adams Fling, in as beauti- 
ful letters as the school-mistress could make in a copy- 
book. Philander reported that he had in his youth 
been mate of the Sarah Baker , and his adventures, as 
related by himself, were quite without limit as to num- 
ber, and also, I regret to say, as to probability. But 
if Philander did not permit himself to be hampered 
by dull fact in his narrations, he sometimes explained 
that what he was telling “would be true in a book, 
but not strickly true out’n a book;” so it happened 
that when the children demanded to be told how Phi- 
lander had made acquaintance, on a coral reef, of “ the 
Sky-blue Mermaid with the Pinky Hair,” they always 
added, “ in a book, you know, Philander, in a book.” 
Not that there was, in truth, any very great difference, 
except that “ out’n a book ” there was a description of 
the reef that sounded too much like the geography, 
and the mermaid was quite fishy, and the songs she 
had sung to Philander were Sunday-school instead of 
rollicking sailor songs. 

Among the earliest impressions of all the children 
w'as the idea that Philander was a very distinguish- 
ed personage, and maturer knowledge had but slowly 
weakened that impression. They were all, even Rho- 
da, very proud as well as fond of him, although Rhoda 
had on several occasions felt it to be her duty to sug- 
gest that there should be more difference between “ in 
a book and out’n a book.” 


FLYING IIILL FARM. 


49 


“ I expect it’s about so,” said Loveday, with a sigh, 
referring to Philander’s opinion of lawsuits. “If I 
thought law was what it ought to be I shouldn’t feel a 
mite uneasy, for there ain’t anybody there but what 
knows that playin’ tricks comes as nat’ral to Preserved 
Gage as lickin’ cream does to a cat.” 

“ There was the time when we ketched him with a 
rollin’-pin in the bottom of the bag where he measured 
the rags,” said Tildy, the “ hired girl.” 

“ And mixin’ the white and colored rags all together 
before you could stop him, instead of payin’ twice as 
much for the white, as he ought to, and always sayin’ 
that rags has fell and tin-ware has riz. I wouldn’t 
never have traded with him if there’d been another 
tin-peddler.” 

“ But, for all of his shortcoming, he may have got 
hurt,” said Philander, leaning against the door, with 
his empty wood-basket at his side. “ Railroad trains 
seem to be consid’able like the rain, that falls on the 
just and the unjust. If them cars runnin’ into him 
has made him stone-blind and helpless he’d ought to 
get damages, for all I see, jest as much as if he was the 
minister. That’s the way that I look at it. I expect 
tin-peddlin’ is kind of wearin’ on the morals, anyhow. 
I’m sorry to see that girl of his follerin’ it.” 

“ I like to see folks stand up for their own side, and 
not be wastin’ sympathy on them Gages,” said Tildy, 
tossing her head so that her many ringlets danced. 

“Folks that looks deep into things, like me, why, 
they can’t help seem’ that justice is justice,” said Phi- 
lander, apologetically, as he disappeared into the dim 
regions of the wood-shed. 

“ I believe he really thinks them Gages had ought 
to have the money,” said Tildy, whose own code of 
morals was the quite simple and not altogether uncoin- 
4 


50 


FLYING HILL FARM. 


mon one of standing up for her own side, right or 
wrong. 

“ I’m afraid there’s a good many that thinks so,” said 
Loveday. “Run out to the end of the lane again, 
Tildy, and see if you can’t see ’em cornin’. Seems as 
if ’twas what I couldn’t bear to have such pop-overs 
as them get cold.” 

Tildy, who had looked out as many times as Blue- 
beard’s sister-in-law, returned, breathless, to say that 
Dilly Gage had just driven by with Lawyer Ketchum 
from Winfield. 

“I see Cally Bumpus’s pink feather a-blowin’ out 
before ever they got to the top of the hill, so I knew 
’twas Dilly Gage cornin’ back. They was goin’ like 
everything, but she stuck her head out and made up a 
face at me. She looked all worked up and ready to 
cry, too.” 

“Then I guess it’s all right,” said Loveday, cheer- 
fully. “And our folks will be along soon. I’m glad 
I cooked such a lot of chicken, if you did laugh; folks 
will eat a sight more when they’re happy than they 
will when they’re took down.” 

“ I guess them Gages are took down for once in 
their lives, and if ever anybody needed it, it’s that 
girl,” said Tildy. 

So they talked joyfully of “ our folks’s ” probable 
triumph, and sent no pity after poor Dilly, going home 
with her ruined hopes and sense of injury. 

Tildy’s next looking out was rewarded by the sight 
of the carriage at the foot of the hill ; and as soon as 
it came near enough, smiles and nods confirmed the 
story that poor Dilly’ s sad and angry face had told. 
In Byerly, with its primitive and “countrified” ways, 
there were no servants, only “ help,” and long service 
made them the confidants of all the family joys and 


FLYING HILL FARM. 


51 


sorrows. Loveday would hear from the children ev- 
ery little incident of the day, and Tildy, although it 
might be at second-hand, would hear all about it, too. 

As she didn’t mean that it should be at second-hand, 
Tildy hurried in to be ready to serve the supper. 
But, strange to say, every one except Squire Brewster 
seemed a little out of sorts. They had won, of course, 
although “that ridiculous jury,” as Phonse called it, 
had awarded one dollar as damages to Preserved 
Gage. 

“ I suppose he really ought to be paid for his 
brooms,” said Cherry, meditatively. 

“ Land sake ! a dozen of his brooms ain’t worth a 
dollar,” said Loveday. 

Phonse would not eat, although Loveday, with whom 
he w r as quite a pet, had picked out the largest straw- 
berries for him, and although his normal appetite for 
pop-overs was remarkably keen. 

“ If you’re going to talk it over any more, I believe 
I shall die!” he said, pushing his chair away from the 
table. “ A fellow can’t stand everything.” 

This was in spite of the fact that he knew that no 
one, not even Rhoda, would touch upon those points 
upon which he was likely to be sensitive, and that 
Uncle David was so reticent that they might almost 
rely upon his never mentioning to them the arithmetic 
lessons, about which, by this time, half the school-boys 
and girls of Byerly were talking. 

So it was sitting upon Cherry’s bed that night that 
Loveday heard all about it. Loveday had taken Cher- 
ry to her honest heart on the day when she was 
brought, a forlorn, motherless baby, to Flying Hill 
Farm, and it was always Loveday, if any one, to whom 
Cherry told her troubles. 

Loveday wiped away the contrite and relieved tears 


52 


FLYING IIILL FAEM. 


that Cherry shed over the matter of Plionse’s exam- 
ples. 

“I can’t say you was right to do ’em, and I ain’t 
a-goin’ to say you was so dretful wrong, bein’ you was 
so kind of weighted by what your grandmother said. 
She wouldn’t never have said it if she’d been herself. 
She’d have known such a mite of a thing as you wa’n’t 
fit to look out for Phonse, and him so contr’y. Land 
sake! Pve thought he was only kind of peevish when 
I couldn’t get him to tell me what time it was when I 
was in the dairy with my hands in the butter. I don’t 
wonder that folks was loath to believe it, and yet if you 
know him it ain’t so strange.. Do I think it was queer 
that a man should have swore so firm that he heard 
Phonse tell old Gage what time it was? Land, no, 
dear! they can hire folks to swear to anything. There’s 
a sight more wickedness than you’ve any idea of. 
Well, I’m glad it got overthrowed this time. Now 
you go to sleep, dearie, after your tirin’ day, and be 
thankful there’s a good God watchin’ over all. What 
if old Gage was hurt? Now, don’t you go to worryin’ 
yourself that way, you foolish child ; don’t you sup- 
pose the doctors know? And don’t his tellin’ a lie 
about Phonse’s tellin’ him the time show that he is 
lyin’ about everything? He never thought of bein’ 
blind till two or three days afterwards. He and his 
daughter together made up the story that she told. 
Now you go to sleep.” 

“ Wait a minute, Loveday. I didn’t tell you about 
Dilly Gage when we were coming home.” 

And then followed a graphic account of Dilly’s 
thrilling menace. 

“ Now, you ain’t foolish enough to let that worry 
you ! What could she do to any of you?” said Love- 
day. 


FLYING HILL FARM. 


53 


“No, no, I’m not afraid of Dilly,” said Cherry. 

And then Loveday went. And Cherry had not told 
her that she only minded what Dilly had said because 
of its effect upon Phonse ; that his face had changed 
strikingly, and that he had been dejected and misera- 
ble ever since. There were some things that Cherry 
did not tell, even to Loveday. And, after all, Phonse’s 
moods were so variable that no one ever pretended to 
account for them ; apparently, no one but her had ob- 
served any change in him, and she was foolish to think 
about it at all. 

So Cherry, as she was bidden, thought comforting^ 
of the good God watching over all, and was drifting 
gently away to a peaceful land of forgetfulness, when 
suddenly the opening of the door aroused her, and 
there stood Rhoda, looking like a ghost in the moon- 
light in her long night-gown. 

“ Cherry, I forgot to ask you if you saw how very 
queerly Phonse looked when Dilly Gage called out to 
him that he would think again of the lie he told. He 
did look very queerly. He turned as pale as could be. 
I can’t go to sleep for thinking of it. And what that 
drummer man testified he heard him say did sound so 
like Phonse! Putting two and two together, I don’t 
know what to make of it.” 

“I should think it was enough to be always putting 
two and two together in the daytime, without doing it 
at this time of night,” said Cherry, crossly. “I sup- 
pose it might make any one look queerly to be talked 
to in that way, even by Dilly Gage. I think it’s hor- 
rid to bo always suspecting people. Phonse can’t tell 
time, so he couldn't have said that.” Cherry was per- 
haps crosser than she would have been if Rhoda had 
not echoed the thoughts which she had found it diffi- 
cult to banish from her own mind. 


54 


FLYING HILL FARM. 


“That man seemed so honest,” persisted Rhoda. 
“Some one might have told Pbonse so he knew, or he 
might have answered at random because he didn’t 
want Preserved Gage to suspect that he couldn’t tell 
time. I heard Squire Follett say, coming out of the 
court-room, that it was only Preserved Gage’s reputa- 
tion that lost him the case. He seemed to think the 
railroad ought to pay him damages. Of course it 
would be ridiculous for them to have so much money, 
but it would be dreadful for us to wrong them!” 

“You’d better go and wake up the jury, Rhoda. 
Tm going to sleep.” And Cherry resolutely turned 
her face to the wall. 

“ Of course, you think only of Pbonse,” continued 
Rhoda, “ but if one has a real sense of justice — ” 

But it was unsatisfactory to talk to one who breathed 
so heavily and regularly as Cherry, and Rhoda went 
away to her own room feeling aggrieved, and wishing 
she had a sister, since Cherry was so unsympathetic. 

She did not refer to the matter the next morning. 
She said to herself that Cherry was sure to be cross 
and unreasonable about anything that implied a doubt 
of Pbonse. She would have liked to tell Ben all about 
it, but Ben had no taste for disputations nor the think- 
ing out of knotty questions. 

“If things bother you, and you can’t make up your 
mind, just take a good run in the fresh air,” Ben would 
say. “That’ll blow the nonsense all out of you, and 
you’ll be apt to see just how things are. If you 
can’t, then, why, just give it up; it’s of no use to fret.” 
When the world went too wrong with Ben he went 
fishing. 

Decidedly, Ben would be even more unsatisfactory 
as a confidant than Cherry, thought Rhoda. Moreover, 
he had an extremely unpleasant habit of quoting to 


FLYING HILL FAKM. 


55 


her, “John Robinson he thinks the world will go 
right if he hollers out gee.” 

It was useless to try to talk to her father about it. 
For him the matter was settled and done with, and he 
was going about his business with a brisker and more 
hopeful air than for a long time previously. Rlioda 
had also overheard Squire Follett say, “If the old fel- 
low had got anything like the amount of damages he 
claimed, it would have been a serious matter for Brew- 
ster in the fix he’s already in.” 

Rhoda knew very little about business ; she did not 
understand as well as Cherry what the loss of money 
might mean, and she had an unwavering confidence 
in her father’s ability to extricate himself from any 
trouble which he might be in, but it was plain to her 
that he would have no patience with her doubts about 
the matter. Her father was an honest man; were even 
honest people readier to believe things right which 
were to their advantage? And Cherry was quite sat- 
isfied because Phonse had come off so victorious. 
People were praising him for his behavior on the wit- 
ness-stand. And how easily she and Phonse had taken 
the exposure of their cheating about the arithmetic 
lessons, which would have almost killed her (Rhoda)! 
Phonse had not seemed to mind going to school again, 
and he had borne quite patiently the mortification of 
being placed in the lowest arithmetic class, and was 
really trying to learn the multiplication-table! Every 
one seemed to regard Cherry and him as heroes in- 
stead of culprits. Rhoda had never been able to think 
it proper that the prodigal son should have had the 
fatted calf. 

“I might go and see the Gages. I might find out 
whether he really is paralyzed and blind, but that girl 
is so very rude. I am not sure that she would let me 


56 


FLYING IIILL FARM. 


in. And if she did, of course they would pretend as 
hard as they could. And I shouldn’t have found out 
that puzzling thing about Phonse. Chissy Fenwick 
might remember. I suppose they would have called 
him as a witness if he had not gone away. He has 
gone to Africa in his father’s ship, away off to Cape 
Natal. I think I shall go and ask his aunt whether 
she thinks a letter would ever reach him, and where to 
direct it.” Ben said that “ when a bee got to buzzing 
in Rhoda’s bonnet it never stopped.” 

Meanwhile the multiplication- table was going very 
hard. It was only after he had been at work upon it 
for two whole weeks that Phonse “freed his mind” 
about it to Cherry, down behind a hay -stack in the 
meadow. 

“ When you get against a great high blank wall you 
know you can’t get any farther, don’t you, Cherry ? 
Well, when my brains get against a lot of figures it’s 
just like that ; they’re simply done for,” Phonse ex- 
plained, with a kind of patient dejection, which was un- 
like himself, and which touched Cherry’s heart. “ And 
now the fellows have taken to snickering. Little Peck- 
ett kept ’em from it as long as she could, but they do 
it now, and the big girls, too, and when it comes my 
turn they all stop whatever they’re doing and gape at 
me. It’s so still you could hear a mouse squeal. Little 
Peckett couldn’t get ’em so still if she tried a month. 
It doesn’t help a fellow’s wits any.” 

“Phonse, I think if I were you I should ask Uncle 
David to let me leave off studying arithmetic after va- 
cation. He must understand now how hard it is for 
you.” 

“ I did ask him,” said Phonse, “ but it was of no use. 
He said a fellow couldn’t get through the world with- 
out knowing more mathematics than I did ; he’d be 




































FLYING BILL FARM. 


57 


constantly hindered and mortified. But as for being 
mortified, I’m getting used to that. I’ve found there 
are worse things in the world than that.” Phonse 
sighed heavily. “He wasn’t very bad about it, Uncle 
David wasn’t ; he seemed to realize more’n you’d think 
what a fellow had to go through with; but he said 
’twas good for a fellow to go through with hard 
things. He needed it to make a man of him. He said 
perhaps I needed particularly just such an obstacle to 
fight against. He hinted at me that I was girly. He’s 
always doing that, you know. Ben does, too, and that 
little clown of a Simmy Backup, with his pig. It makes 
a fellow grind his teeth sometimes. Fancy that little 
beggar of a Simmy Backup doing problems like the 
Lightning Calculator at the show, and having geome- 
try at his finger-ends, when he talks such an orfle lot 
of bad grammar, and hasn’t any eyes! Why, he doesn’t 
see anything but firewood in a tree, and he thinks the 
sky was made to fly his kite in. And a fellow has got 
to be looked down on and thought a fool by him! 
Cherry, I think I shall run away.” 

“ You can’t run away from arithmetic,” said Cherry, 
sagely. “ It’s all over the world. Don’t you remember 
that the Purple Peri that Philander met floating on an 
iceberg in the Indian Ocean was doing sums, though 
I believe she said she was only doing them to get 
warmed up ?” 

But this attempt to cheer Phonse was rewarded only 
by a faint and sickly smile, although Phonse took the 
greatest delight of any of them in Philander’s narra- 
tives. 

“I think you take it too hard, I really do, Phonse,” 
she said, trying a different method. “I’ve read of so 
many bright people who — who didn’t like arithmetic. 
Marjorie Fleming said, don’t you remember, that 


58 


FLYING HILL FARM. 


‘ seven times eight was what nature itself couldn’t en- 
dure ?’ ” 

“ She was a girl,” said Phonse. “ It doesn’t matter 
whether a girl knows the multiplication - table or not. 
She doesn’t have her own way to make. That’s what 
Uncle David said I would have, my own way to make; 
he said he thought it was not probable that he could do 
anything more for me than to give me an education.” 

“I shall have my way to make just as much as you, 
if I am a girl,” said Cherry. 

Phonse looked at her as if a new idea had struck 
him. 

“ I believe you could,” he said, with an air of con- 
viction. “You’re so clever, and you don’t mind things 
as I do. You make a silly fuss, of course, sometimes, 
but you might get over that.” 

“And you can be an artist, Phonse! Do you know, 
I think Uncle David is going to think differently about 
that, from some things he said. I think that day in 
court was a fortunate one, after all.” 

“Fortunate! Fortunate /” cried Phonse. “It was 
the very horridest day I ever spent. I didn’t know 
anything in the world could be so bad.” 

“It was hard at the time, of course, harder for you 
than for any one else.” 

“I should think it was!” said Phonse. 

“ But then it turned out so well,” said Cherry. 

“It’s over, at any rate, that’s one comfort,” said 
Phonse. “A fellow would rather die than go through 
with it again. As for turning out well, I suppose those 
things always turn out well for somebody. Uncle 
David is all right.” 

“I think of them too — those Gages, Phonse,” said 
Cherry, eagerly. “ I didn’t know that they worried 
you.” 


FLYING HILL FARM. 


59 


“Who said they did worry me?” said Phonse, with 
one of his fiercest scowls. 

“You don’t think it’s possible, do you, Phonse, that 
they were wronged ?” persisted Cherry. 

“ Oh, I suppose the old rascal is shamming, fast 
enough,” said Phonse. “ It would be just like him, 
and the jury thought the doctors who said so told the 
truth. It was the doctors who settled the business, you 
know.” 

“ Ye-e-s, I suppose so,” said Cherry, slowly. “But 
of course your bringing him out in that falsehood he 
told about the time made a difference.” 

“It didn’t make a bit of difference. It’s just like 
you to think that,” said Phonse, ill-naturedly. “Of 
course they knew he might be blind afterwards, if he 
wasn’t then. And they knew that some one else might 
have told him, or they would have known it if they 
hadn’t been a lot of simpletons. I never saw such a 
lot of simpletons.” 

“ Some one else, Phonse ? How could — ” 

“Didn’t you hear what that drummer said? Well, 
he wasn’t swearing falsely ; any one with a grain of 
sense could tell that he wasn’t. He only made a mis- 
take.” 

“ A mistake , Phonse ?” said Cherry, faintly. 

“Yes, a mistake; the same one that old Gage made; 
He thought he was telling the truth. I didn’t say 
what they said I did : ‘ It’s nineteen minutes past three, 
but that old clock is never right,’ but some one else 
did.” 

“ Phonse, what do you mean ?” cried Cherry. “ Who 
said it ?” 

“ Chissy Fenwick. There were some alder-bushes be- 
tween him and the drummer ; I suppose that’s why he 
didn’t see him. I should think old Gage might have.” 


60 


FLYING HILL FARM. 


“ And you didn’t tell of it ?” cried Cherry, spring- 
ing up from her seat at the foot of the hay-stack. 
“ Oh, Phonse, what shall we do ? what shall we do ?” 


CHAPTER VI. 

“ I didn’t tell?” echoed Phonse, impatiently. “ Of 
course I didn’t tell. Why should I tell ? They didn’t 
ask me what Chissy Fenwick said. If they had thought 
it was very important, anyway, all that stutf about 
the clock, they wrnuld have thought of him. Of course 
the doctors’ evidence settled it. I didn’t remember 
it, anyway, until that fellow said it over. Then it 
came across me like a flash that Chissy had said just 
those words when I said it was too late to go fishing. 
I did think at first that I would tell just how it was, 
but that lawyer fellow had been bluffing and brow- 
beating me so I wasn’t going to give him the satis- 
faction. And it might have made some of them be- 
lieve that old Preserved was blind, and lost the case for 
Uncle David.” 

“But oh, Phonse, he wouldn’t have wanted you to 
keep anything back. And it looks as if he might be 
blind; he didn’t see Chissy Fenwick.” 

“I’m not sure but there were some bushes between 
them. Of course I didn’t notice. A fellow doesn’t ex- 
pect that he’s going to be put upon the witness-stand 
and tormented almost to death because a stupid old tin- 
peddler asks him what time it is. He said I went up 
to his wagon; that was false, anyway. It was a misty 
kind of day; it had been raining — nobody said any- 
thing about that, either; that showed they didn’t really 
think all that stuff about whether Preserved could see 


FLYING HILL FARM. 


61 


the clock or not was of much consequence. It never 
seemed to me that it amounted to anything, but just 
to give people a chance to torment me.” 

“Perhaps he couldn’t see the clock, Phonse. He 
knew what time it was because he heard Chissy Fen- 
wick tell you. He knew you; he could see you.” 

“ He asked me if I wasn’t ‘ one of Brewster’s boys,’ 
and he peered at me; but then he always had a kind 
of peering way with his eyes. I suppose he had made 
up his mind by that time to pretend to be blind.” 

“ Phonse, I believe he is blind. I believe he and 
Dilly have told the truth. And you must go this very 
minute to Uncle David and tell him about Chissy 
Fenwick. He will know what to do. Perhaps there’ll 
be another trial.” 

In her excitement Cherry had seized Phonse by the 
arm, with the intention of leading him immediately 
to Uncle David. Phonse shook her off angrily. “I 
shouldn’t have told you that if I hadn’t thought 
you had a little bit of sense, Cherry Eastman. Uncle 
David wouldn’t thank me, I can tell you. Perhaps 
you think he’d go to Lawyer Ketchum and say, ‘ I’ve 
found some new evidence against my side; you’d bet- 
ter have another trial.” ’ 

“Uncle David is honest,” said Cherry, stoutly. 

“ Of course he is honest, but he isn’t a fool. And 
if they were to go all through with that performance 
again it would kill me. That’s all it w^ould do. It 
was the doctors’ evidence that convinced the jury; 
every one says so.” 

“I suppose it was,” said Cherry; “but oh, Phonse, 
it must have been so aggravating to Preserved Gage 
and to Dilly! They think you told a lie. Oh, I wish 
you had told about Chissy Fenwick.” 

“It’s just like a girl to be wishing, when wishing 


62 


FLYING HILL FARM. 


does no good. Don’t yon suppose I’m bothered enough 
about it without your making me feel worse ?” 

“ I know you are, I know you are, Phonse,” cried 
Cherry, with sudden contrition, remembering how ev- 
ery one had been struck by Phonse’s altered looks. 
“But it would be so much better — oh, don’t you think it 
would be better to tell Uncle David, and let him de- 
cide about it ?” 

“ And get him into a muddle! that would be a pretty 
return for what he has done for me, wouldn’t it ? I did 
help him a little, and now I’m not going to undo it all.” 

“ But, Phonse, you don’t seem to think how dreadful 
it is if the Gages have been wronged. If he is blind 
and helpless I don’t know what Dilly will do. They’ve 
always seemed to be awfully poor.” 

“I don’t think, do I?” cried Phonse, in the shrill, 
high-pitched voice which excitement always gave him. 
“ I don’t think of much else. That girl’s face comes 
before me when I try to go to sleep. Every time I try 
to eat I wonder if they’re not hungry.” 

“I know you are tender-hearted, Phonse; I ought to 
have remembered,” said Cherry. “ But it isn’t of any 
use to think of people if we don’t do anything.” 

“I can’t go through with all that again, I tell you, 
Cherry. I can’t have it stirred up and talked about. 
And if you go and tell Uncle David you’ll only annoy 
him. I ought not to have told you, but a fellow keeps 
thinking and thinking of a thing, sometimes, until he 
must tell somebody. And he knows he’ll make it seem 
bigger than it is if he doesn’t tell somebody. I expected 
you’d say it didn’t amount to anything, anyway; but 
a girl never has any sense. Mind, you’ve no right to 
tell. It’s my affair, and I told you in confidence,” add- 
ed Phonse, fiercely. 

Cherry was silent for a few minutes. She braided 


FLYING HILL FARM. 


63 


wisps of hay together, and then tore them nervously 
to pieces. 

“We must find out about Preserved Gage, Phonse; 
you and I. If he is helpless and blind we won’t let 
anything hinder us from doing what is right, will we ?” 

“ You can’t find out,” said Phonse. “I’d like to. I’d 
give anything to. But that girl won’t let us. She 
looked ready to tear me into pieces.” 

“ I think I shall go to see her,” said Cherry, slowly. 
“ I’m not afraid that she will tear me into pieces. Poor 
Dilly! I remember how proud she used to be when no 
one could spell her down in a match at school. I think 
those were the only times I ever saw her look happy. 
Do you know, Phonse, I think I ought to have gone to 
see her before. I don’t see why I haven’t; I knew she 
was poor and friendless. I don’t think there is a girl 
of her age down in Roaring Brook settlement. And 
I go to see lots of girls whom I don’t care particularly 
about, and who don’t care about me, because they have 
so many other friends.” 

(It seemed that the text which Dilly had heard in 
Sunday-school, “When thou makest a feast,” was begin- 
ning to “mean something” to Cherry.) 

“I don’t think it’s of any use to try to make friends 
of those people,” said Phonse. “A fellow doesn’t like 
to think they’re cold or hungry, or anything like that; 
he can’t keep it out of his mind. But it’s of no use try- 
ing to pretend they’re like other people, because they’re 
not. And that girl wouldn’t let you be friends with 
her. Her father is one of those Socialist fellows, or 
thinks he is. I don’t suppose he knows what he’s talk- 
ing about. I’ve heard him ranting away, in the store. 
He thinks the poor people ought to take away the rich 
people’s land, and burn up their houses. He seems to 
think all rich people are his natural enemies.” 


64 


FLYING HILL FARM. 


“ We’re not rich people,” said Cherry, practically. 

“I don’t think you have to be very rich to make 
Preserved Gage hate you,” said Phonse. “ Uncle Da- 
vid used to be called a rich man for Byerly, and I 
don’t think those fellows forgive you, even if you get 
over it.” 

“ I think that Dilly has more sense than her father,” 
said Cherry, meditatively. 

“ She behaves as if she had a lot of sense,” said 
Phonse, with extreme sarcasm. 

“It isn’t any wonder that she feels dreadfully pro- 
voked,” said Cherry. “ I am sure that if her father is 
making believe, he is deceiving her too.” 

“I’ve been thinking about it, and I don’t believe he 
could. Of course' she would pretend ; she wouldn’t 
care how they got the money. She’s an orfle sharp 
girl; it would be easy enough for her to take you in,” 
said Phonse, with an air of superiority. 

“I suppose I’m not very clever,” said Cherry, hum- 
bly. “ And it hurts me so not to believe in people.” 

“You’ll have to get over that,” said Phonse, with a 
man-of-the- world air. “ It isn’t at all the sort of world 
that you think it is, if you’re a girl, or small. You just 
have to believe that every one is trying to cheat you, 
and you must struggle and push to keep your own head 
above water, and not mind what happens to other peo- 
ple.” 

“ Oh, Phonse Brewster! how can you say such horrid 
things? You don’t think them, you know you don’t !” 
cried Cherry. 

“ J eff Atwell, down at the store, says so, anyway,” 
said Phonse, looking only a trifle abashed. “ And ev- 
ery one calls him smart. Iiis father says he is going 
to make a lawyer of him. Anyway, I’m not going to 
trouble myself about those Gages.” 


FLYING HILL FARM. 


65 


It was very evident that Phonse was using Jeff At- 
well’s philosophy to bolster up his conscience in the 
matter of the Gages. It was also evident that it was 
not successful. “You won’t trouble yourself about 
them either if you’re not a silly,” he added, as Cherry 
was walking silently away, with a downcast air. “ And, 
I say, Cherry, if you should tell what I told you — I 
don’t suppose you’re mean and wicked enough to do 
it — but if you should, I should run away to sea. You 
know I’m not pretending; I would certainly do it; 
sometimes I think it is the best thing I could do, any- 
way.” Phonse’s voice shook. “And I should have to 
go with the first captain who would take me; it might 
be on board one of those whalers, where they abuse fel- 
lows orfly, or it might be a ship that was going where 
they have fevers, or plagues and things. 1 shouldn’t 
mind ; but in winter nights, when the wind howled — 
well, I shouldn’t wonder if you hated to hear it worse 
than you do now!” 

Cherry shrank perceptibly from the mention of these 
awful possibilities, and Phonse congratulated himself 
upon the effect he had produced. He fully intended to 
carry out his threats, but was aware that, on the whole, 
he should prefer to be spared the necessity for such 
desperate action. 

Cherry straightened herself, and turned upon him 
indignantly, after a moment’s reflection. “It’s very 
mean of you, Phonse, to try to frighten me in that way, 
because you know I can’t help being soft and minding 
what happens to you. It sounds foolish, too, as if I 
were a little girl. I sha’n’t mind it in the least. I shall 
do what I think is right.” 

Phonse’s sensitive face flushed, and his brow dark- 
ened as he looked after her. That Cherry should re- 
volt like this was something new. lie could usually 
5 


66 


FLYING HILL FARM. 


depend upon Cherry to do as he asked her, and he had 
never realized how important this allegiance of hers 
was to his happiness. Now it appeared she was going 
to be like Rhoda, and think it her “ duty ” to tell. If 
she did he must run away; a fellow couldn’t stand ev- 
erything, he said aloud. Running away was an ex- 
pedient which always suggested itself to Phonse’s mind 
when difficulties loomed darkly. He had a strong in- 
stinct to avoid everything that was in any way un- 
pleasant (Ben privately thought him a great coward — 
an opinion strongly concurred in by Simmy Backup), 
and there was also an adventurous side to his nature, 
which Philander’s romances had tended to develop. 
But Phonse had begun to realize that his views of 
what was likely to happen to a boy who ran away to 
sea were visionary. It was quite a long time ago that 
he had relinquished, with a keen sense of loss, the ex- 
pectation of meeting a mermaid, gracefully fanning 
herself with her tail, upon a coral reef or in a silver 
grotto, or a sea-lion with a fancy for relating his advent- 
ures ; but it was only of late that the probable realities 
of a sailor boy’s life had been forcing themselves upon 
his imagination, and he had concluded that there was 
a dreadful possibility that a boy, no better adapted to 
“ roughing it ” than he was, might wish himself at 
home. Nevertheless, if it came to a question of being 
placed again upon that witness-stand he thought he 
should not hesitate. “ I don’t believe I should mind 
sea-sickness or home-sickness, or even the rope’s end as 
much as I mind the sight of that girl’s face! I never 
noticed before how thin and hungry she looked. I’m 
afraid I can’t run away from thinking of that, any more 
than I can from arithmetic, as Cherry says. Cherry 
ought to find out that he’s making believe. That 
would set everything right. But you can’t depend 


FLYING HILL FARM. 


67 


upon a girl, anyway. I’d give anything to see that old 
fellow for myself. I believe I should know whether 
he was a fraud or not. Perhaps I’m foolish to think 
I could tell, when the doctors can’t— at least they don’t 
agree about it ; but I should like to see him. He must 
be so orfly mad with me that if he could see me he 
couldn’t help showing it. I’m afraid of that girl, I 
don’t mind owning it, but I’m not afraid of old Pre- 
served himself. Let me think ; they say she goes off 
tin-peddling every day. I’ll just go down there to the 
Roaring Brook settlement and look about a little.” 

But with Phonse to make a resolve was not always 
to carry it out. He sat irresolute in the shadow of the 
hay-stack and looked towards the Roaring Brook road, 
and wondered whether Cherry would really go to their 
uncle, and what he would say, and whether Hilly Gage 
made any money at tin -peddling, and how a fellow 
would feel high up in a ship’s rigging in a storm, de- 
ciding that it was doubtful whether he would be in a 
mood to observe artistic effects; and then suddenly he 
became aware that there was a sunset red in the sky, 
and that the old elm in the corner of the field, which 
had been struck by lightning, was vividly outlined 
against it. Upon one of its blasted branches a wild 
grape-vine had compensatingly twined itself, and it 
looked like a gay banner waved from a ruined tower. 

In a moment Phonse had drawn his sketch-book 
from his pocket, and was oblivious of everything in 
the world but picturesque effects. 

“If I could only paint ! if I only had some colors !” 
he murmured aloud, with perhaps a keener sense of 
being at odds with fate than he had had in all his other 
troubles. 

He drew slowly, almost timidly,- with delicate, accu- 
rate strokes. Dilly Gage might almost have made a 


68 


FLYING HILL FA11M. 


face at him without his knowing it. In the mean time 
Cherry, going on her way, with her head held high and 
quite a tumult of indignation in her bosom, met Rhoda 
coming along the field path, trim and dainty and un- 
ruffled, as Rhoda always was, but with a certain air of 
being, as Phonse would have called it, up to something. 

“ I’ve been down to Mrs. Chisholm’s,” she said.. “She 
has heard from Chissy Fenwick. He is in South Africa, 
away at the bottom of the map, where you make the 
little bit of a scallop when you draw it. Doesn’t it 
seem strange? That is his address. I asked Mrs. 
Chisholm to tell me, so I could write it down.” 

Cherry understood in a moment what Rhoda meant 
to do, and the consciousness of the secret which she 
was keeping made her flush guiltily. If Rhoda were 
not so hard upon Phonse — if she were not, as Phonse 
declared, so mathematically good, making no more al- 
lowance for a fellow’s weaknesses than the multiplica- 
tion-table did — she almost thought she should have 
told her. Surely they were quite agreed; they were 
both troubled lest wrong had been done to the Gages. 
Cherry was suddenly seized with a new feeling that it 
was strange and sad that Rhoda and she should always 
be so far apart in sympathy; poor, perplexed Cherry, 
who did not yet realize that foolish human creatures 
everywhere walk the same paths, hoping for the same 
goal, with jostling, and bitterness, and utterly divided 
hearts. 

Rhoda felt the lack of sympathy even more than 
she, and said it was all Cherry’s fault ; it was chiefly 
because she was so foolish about Phonse. 

“I am going to write to Chissy Fenwick,” said 
Rhoda. “ I don’t suppose he will remember, he has 
had such exciting times since, but there’s just a little 
bit of a chance that he may.” 


FLYING HILL FARM. 


69 


“ Remember what?” said Cherry; and although she 
had just been having such softened thoughts of Rhoda, 
she spoke crossly, so crossly that it surprised herself, 
as I am afraid all our tongues have a trick of surpris- 
ing us once in a while, as if the awful, mysterious little 
telegraph wires that connect them with our hearts got 
mixed up and ticked off the wrong message. 

“ About what Phonse said that day,” said Rhoda, in 
her calm, even voice. “It is so very puzzling; and 
Phonse certainly behaves as if — well, very queerly. I 
can’t feel satisfied that the right was on our side ; and 
it is always so satisfactory to get at the bottom facts.” 
Rhoda emphasized these words with an air of great 
wisdom. “ That is what papa always says is the great 
thing — to get at the bottom facts. But when I talked 
to him about this he didn’t seem at all interested. He 
acted as if he were annoyed. He called me silly, which 
I am sure no one ever called me before — no one of the 
least consequence, that is,” amended Rhoda, doubtless 
recalling candid personalities on the part of the boys. 
“ He said that of course he wouldn’t wish to profit by 
any injustice. I knew that before ; that was why I 
expected him to be more interested ; but he was per- 
fectly convinced that Phonse told the exact truth about 
what he said to Preserved Gage that day.” 

“ I know he did,” cried Cherry, “ and I think it is 
perfectly horrid of you to think he would tell a lie — 
like that,” she added, faintly. 

“ I can’t make it out,” said Rhoda, shaking her head 
sagely. “And when I can’t make things out I’m sure 
there’s something wrong about them.” And, with a 
sigh, Rhoda went on, evidently finding Cherry as un- 
satisfactory as ever. “I shall write to Chissy Fen- 
wick,” she turned back to say; and Cherry was an- 
gry, because she thought her tone made it seem as 


70 


FLYING HILL FARM. 


if she had added, “ although I know you don’t want 
me to.” 

Cherry had almost resolved to tell Uncle David 
what Phonse had told her, or at least she thought she 
had; perhaps the long habit of shielding Phonse at 
almost any cost would have asserted its power at the 
last moment in any case. The meeting with Rhoda 
caused an entire revulsion of feeling. To tell of 
Phonse while Rhoda was “ picking upon him” like 
that, she said to herself, would be like a rgean-spirited 
going over to the enemy. 

“But I can’t bear to let thin.gs go as they are. I 
shall go down to the Roaring Brook settlement ! I 
may find out whether Preserved Gage is blind and 
paralyzed, or at least whether they are so very poor.” 

It required courage to go down there; Cherry felt a 
great shrinking from Dilly and her father, but, never- 
theless, she turned back across the field, and Phonse, if 
he had not been so intent upon drawing the “ lightning 
tree,” as they always called it, might have seen her 
climb over the stone wall, the way “across lots” to 
Roaring Brook. 


CHAPTER VII. 

Cherry hurried along, never stopping even to pick 
the few late strawberries that grew so large, on their 
tall stems, in the newly cleared land on the edge of the 
woods ; nor the wakerobins, that looked shyly out at 
her from behind the blackened stumps of the burnt 
land, and never letting herself be daunted by the 
awful stillness and twilight darkness of the deep 
woods, although her heart always beat faster there ; 
nor by the sudden whirring of wings and the weird 


>• 



PHONSE, IP HE HAD NOT BEEN SO INTENT UPON DRAWING THE ‘ LIGHT- 
NING TREE,’ MIGHT HAVE SEEN CHERRY CLIMB OVER THE STONE 
WALE.” 






















I 
















































* 














* 










t- 


































FLYING HILL FAKM. 


71 


whisperings which sounded so like human voices, but 
w r hich, of course, one knew well enough were only the 
pine-trees, which seem to have a story that never gets 
told. Now and then a great birch-tree made her heart 
jump, it looked so ghostly in its white dress in the 
semi-darkness ; and here, by the old log lumbering- 
camp, was the place where three little paths branched 
off, all seeming to lead in the same direction, but un- 
less one chose rightly one would get lost in the depths 
of the woods or led into the swamp before one knew 
it. Cherry used to know the right path, she said to 
herself, but it was a long time since she had been to 
the Roaring Brook settlement, and she stood still, not 
quite certain whether it was the one where there was 
a fallen tree, or the one that was a little muddy at the 
beginning, or the one which looked just like the path 
on which she had come so far. 

“ I ought to have gone ’round by the road, only 
there wasn’t time ; but I might have waited until to- 
morrow, when there would have been,” she said to her- 
self. “But I think I remember that the fallen tree 
path isn’t the right one, and the muddy one looks as if 
it went into the swamp. I’ll follow this one that looks 
right, and if it’s wrong I shall know it by the looks of 
things before long.” 

She was out of the deep woods now. The path ran 
through a growth of low bushes and slender saplings, 
and the open sky, flaming with sunset splendor, was 
above her head, and Cherry’s spirits rose. 

“ I’m glad I came,” she said to herself. “ I like to 
have things over with, if Loveday does say I’m too 
impulsive.” 

It seemed as if the path ran so straight to Roaring 
Brook that it must be right, but the increasing under- 
brush warned Cherry that she had chosen wrongly. 


12 


FLYING HILL FARM. 


“ I’ve come too far to go back,” she said to herself. 
“I ought to have come out at the carriage-road by this 
time. I think I can go across through the bushes and 
find it; they’re not tall, so I can’t get lost. I can see 
Tumble Down Hill all the way, and hark ! I think I 
hear the brook roaring.” 

Cherry pushed her way through the bushes, un- 
daunted by brambles or briers, following the direction 
of the sound. If she could once reach the brook she 
could follow it until she came to the Gages’ house. 

The sound of the brook came nearer and nearer; one 
little struggle more through the thick underbrush and 
she might reach it. Suddenly a great crashing in the 
bushes behind her made her jump. It seemed as if 
some huge animal were close upon her. She remem- 
bered, with a shiver, the stories she had heard Loveday 
tell of wild-cats on Tumble Down Hill, when she was a 
girl. She laughed at herself the next moment. There 
had been no wild-cats seen in that region for twenty 
years at least. Phonse said the wild creatures that 
used to live there had not had a fair chance, and this 
was probably a stray cow from the settlement, though 
she would not have supposed that any of the people 
who lived there were thrifty enough to keep a cow. 
But the animal, whatever it was, had no intention of 
pursuing her, for she could hear it plunging off in the 
direction of the deep woods. 

Another moment and she could see the brook. 

“ Land sakes alive ! you scairt me ’most to pieces,” 
cried a voice, and from the bank arose a tall girl with 
a gypsyish face and bare, brier-torn feet — Cally Bum- 
pus, the proprietor of the famous pink-feathered bon- 
net. Cherry knew her because Loveday bought berries 
of her, and sometimes strings of trout, which were 
plenty in Roaring Brook, after it had flowed around to 






N 
















. 










FLYING HILL FARM. 


13 


the other side of Tumble Down Hill, in the midst of al- 
most impenetrable underbrush. “ It’s enough to give 
anybody their never-get-over to come upon ’em like 
that, with all the stories there is round here. I thought 
you was the ghost!” 

“The ghost?” echoed Cherry, in a puzzled tone. 

“ Hain’t you heard of it ?” exclaimed Cally Bumpus. 
“Well, I expect you stuck-up folks on Flyin’ Hill 
don’t care nothin’ what happens down here to the set- 
tlement. Such kind of folks makes light of ghosts too. 
Mebbe, now, you don’t believe in ’em ?” 

Cherry declined to commit herself, having really no 
opinion whatever on the subject of ghosts. She could 
not remember that one had ever figured in Philander’s 
narratives. She remembered having been convinced, 
in her early childhood, by Aunt Ruth, that there were 
no such things as the“booger men” and witches with 
which ignorant servant-girls tried to frighten her; but 
so far as she could remember, she had never been really 
frightened. And she now failed to feel the slightest 
thrill of terror at the thought of Cally Bumpus’s ghost. 
But she thought it might not be quite polite to say so, 
as Cally herself was so much impressed, and seemed to 
resent any doubt cast upon its genuineness. 

“You’d believe in ’em if you see one, now, wouldn’t 
you ?” said Cally, in a thrilling tone. 

“ Have you seen one ?” asked Cherry. 

“No, I hain’t, nor I don’t want to,” returned Cally, 
with emphasis. “But my brother ’Lando has, and old 
Stevie Mann, and it was eight feet high, all in white, 
with glitterin’ eyes, and it just vanished right away 
without a mite of a sound ; anyhow, ’Lando said that 
was the way it went, but old Stevie Mann he went right 
up to the place where it was — he ain’t afraid of nothin’, 
old Stevie ain’t, because he ain’t so smart as some — and 


74 


FLYING HILL FARM. 


he says he heard kind of a rustlin’ in the bushes, but it 
wa’n’t nothin’ like what a human cretur would make. 
’Twas bright moonlight when ’Lando and Stevie Mann 
see it, but Lowizy Rolandson she see it on the edge of 
the evenin’, and folks kind of think that Dilly Gage see 
it, but she was so scairt she was ’most dead, and she 
don’t like to have folks say nothin’ about it. She kind 
of got belajted w T ith her tin-peddlin’, and was cornin’ 
home along the cross-road between daylight and dark, 
and she see something, for my brother Lewellyn he 
heard her fetch a screech, and Lewellyn he says he 
thinks he see something white vanishin’ in the bushes. 
Lewellyn is terrible cautious about what he says, and 
it’s as much for him to say he thinks he see it as it 
would be for some folks to declare up and down. ’Twas 
just there by that piece of woods that’s back of Dilly’s 
house. When she got to the house old Jane was so 
scairt she was tremblin’, and Dilly she was ’most faint- 
in’ away. Lewellyn he had to help her off the w r ag- 
on. She got into the house and shut the door in 
Lewellyn’s face; you can see how scairt she was by 
that, for ’t wa’n’t the least mite like Dilly. It takes 
consid’able to frighten Dilly Gage. And she hollered 
out to Lewellyn to go right home, and not say a single 
word to nobody. And what do you think some folks 
makes out of that ? — ’tain’t nobody, though, but Phoebe 
Dewsnap and a few mean gossipin’ creturs that’ll listen 
to her. She says she believes the ghost ain’t nobody 
but old Preserved Gage, that can walk if he’s a mind 
to, and goes round playin’ ghost so’st he can stretch his 
legs a little and keep folks from findin’ it out !” 

Cherry uttered a little involuntary exclamation. To 
her mind it seemed an extremely probable and satis- 
factory way of accounting for the ghost. Cally turned 
upon her sharply. 


FLYING HILL FARM. 


75 


“ You’d like to think ’twas so, now, wouldn’t you? 
I don’t know what I was thinkin’ of to tell you about 
it anyhow. But ’tain’t no such a thing, and don’t you 
go to thinkin’ it is, nor sayin’ so neither. Likely, ain’t 
it, that he could get up and go walkin’ round and Billy 
not know it ? And you can’t make me believe Billy 
Gage would ever do nothin’ deceitful; it ain’t in her. 
Beats me how folks can see that poor old cretur layin’ 
there a-sufferin’ and then go off and get up such sto- 
ries. Your folks have got something to answer for, I 
can tell you that. I expect you think you’re such big- 
bugs that there hain’t goin’ to be no day of judgment 
for you, but I guess you’ll find out. Come to think of 
it, I don’t know as you was so much to blame ; you 
ain’t skurcely more’n a young one.” Cally surveyed 
Cherry with critical eighteen - year - old superiority. 
“You ain’t the one that hollered out in court, be you ? 
Be you?” as Cherry nodded an embarrassed assent. 
“ I thought it was the other one, that little nipped-up 
piece they call Rhoda. Seems more like her ; she’s 
sarcier’n what you be. She looks at folks as if they 
was the dirt under her feet. I expect you’re jest the 
same, only you don’t show it quite so much. Well, I 
shouldn’t want to be in your shoes ! You’re jest a-liv- 
in’ in the house and havin’ the victuals and clothes that 
belongs to Billy Gage and her father, for they say your 
uncle hain’t got no more’n enough to pay ’em in the 
world. He’s most run out, and you ain’t no dif’runt 
from poor folks yourselves !” 

Cherry had known before that no artificial code of 
manners prevented the Roaring Brook people from 
speaking their minds, but that did not prevent her 
from being both hurt and indignant at Cally Bumpus’s 
attack. It was useless to defend one’s self; conversa- 
tion with Cally was difficult, if not impossible. She 


FLYING HILL FARM. 


16 

moved away in silence, with her head well up, and as 
much dignity of manner as was consistent with the dif- 
ficulty of making one’s way through underbrush. Cal- 
ly called after her : 

“ Now, don’t you go to tellin’ about this pool. There 
ain’t nothin’ here to ketch, anyhow.” (Cally’s basket 
was more than half full of shining, gayly speckled trout.) 
“ What you down here for, anyway ? I shouldn’t think 
you’d want to come nigh the Gages.” 

This was an opening for a question which Cherry 
had felt that her dignity would scarcely allow her to 
ask. 

“ I came to see Dilly Gage. Can I get to the house 
by taking this path ?” 

“ Yes, foller your nose,” said Cally, concisely. “ You 
can’t, though, can you, ’thout you go up ?” she added as 
an after-thought. 

Of course one did not really mind this vulgar little 
thrust of Cally’s, and it was annoying that it would 
bring the color to one’s face, as none of her other re- 
marks had done. 

“ Going to see Dilly Gage ? Well, you’ve got cheek, 
ain’t you !” called Cally, who seemed to mean to atone 
for the unbecoming affability into which her relish for 
gossip about the ghost had led her by showing a loyal 
resentment towards Dilly Gage’s enemy. “She ain’t 
a-goin’ to take any of your sarce, you’d better b’lieve.” 

Cherry turned upon her with one of her sudden im- 
pulses. 

“You don’t understand,” she said. “I want to help 
Dilly Gage if I can. We wouldn’t wrong her or any- 
body for the world.” 

“Talk’s cheap!” shouted Cally. “Cheap, cheap!” 
echoed Tumble Down Hill above the brook’s noise, and 
a homeward flying bird alighted on a juniper-tree and 


FLYING HILL FARM. 


11 


uttered a note which sounded like “ cheap, cheap!” too. 
And Cherry felt as if everything around had joined 
together to insult her, and she could not arouse herself 
to defy them because of a dreadful doubt whether she 
did not deserve it. 

She wished that she had not come. Uncle David 
and Loveday and all of them were certainly right in 
deploring her rashness. It was much better to stop to 
think, as Rhoda did. She did not know in the least 
what she should say to Dilly Gage; it was going to 
bo much more unpleasant to meet her than she had 
expected. Dilly had the same unpleasing candor of 
speech that characterized Cally Bumpus, and with her 
greater provocation what might she not say ? Although 
she was unskilled in parrying their coarse weapons, 
how little she would have cared for them if she could 
have held herself entirely blameless ! She must go 
home by the road, for even the long summer twilight 
would soon darken into night, and to go by the Gages ' 
house was inevitable; but Cherry had almost decided 
that she would not stop to see Dilly, after all, but would 
slip by unobserved if she could, when, just as she 
stepped from the woods path into the road, there was 
a great jolting and bumping of the rickety log bridge 
which spanned the brook, mingled with a rattling and 
clattering of tins, and from the shadows emerged old 
Jane’s bony frame, followed by the wagon, with its ar- 
ray of tins and brushes, and Dilly perched upon the 
high seat in front, with a bristling broom on each side 
of her, as if for a guard. She drew Jane up suddenly, 
and scowled down at Cherry from under her battered 
hat. 

“ What you down here for ? You been spyin’ round 
my house I expect,” she said, a wave of color sweeping 
up over her thin freckled face. 


78 


FLYING HILL FARM. 


“ I — I came to see you,” faltered Cherry. 

“ To see me !” echoed Dilly, in amazement. “ Be 
you — is he a-goin’ to own up to that lie he told ?” Her 
tone was full of eagerness. 

“ Phonse didn’t tell a lie, Dilly,” said Cherry. “ He 
told the truth, but—” Cherry stopped suddenly. 
What had she been going to do ? she asked herself, in 
affright. To confide to Dilly Gage what Phonse had 
told her ? She must beware of her impulsiveness. 

“ Don’t you darst to say he told the truth ! he nev- 
er !” cried Dilly. “ Don’t you s’pose Pm agoin’ to b’lieve 
my own father ? If you’ve come down here to try to 
make me b’lieve he’s a-pretendin’ and makin’ b’lieve, 
why, then, you jest better go right straight home 
again.” 

“ I didn’t come for that, Dilly,” said Cherry, meek- 
ly. “ I — I thought perhaps you couldn’t make much 
money at tin-peddling; it is so hard for a girl. I — we 
thought you might be poor.” 

“ Whose door is it a-layin’ to if I be poor ?” demand- 
ed Dilly, in a hard voice, which, nevertheless, threat- 
ened to break. “ I ain’t puttin’ money in the bank, nor 
I didn’t expect to. Poor folks has got to be satisfied 
if they don’t go hungry. Some that traded with me 
first, jest for the fun of it, ’cause I was like a crowin’ 
hen, they’ve fell off, but I’ve got my reg’lar customers, 
and rags is brisk. I have to lick consid’able many for 
sarcin’ me. When it’s the loafers round the stores, 
down to the corner, I jest make faces at ’em, but when 
they’re kind of small so’st I can, I chase ’em and lick 
’em. I jest ketched a couple down by the paper-mill 
and licked ’em good.” 

“ I should think it would be better not to notice 
them,” suggested Cherry. “ They would soon get tired 
of it.” 


FLYING IIILL FARM. 


19 


“ Great you know about it !” retorted Dilly. “ They 
don’t learn folks about tin-peddlin’ and takin’ sarce 
down to the ’cademy. You h ain’t got no business to 
say nothin’ to me, anyhow, and I ain’t a-goin’ to talk 
to you.” 

She chirruped to Jane, and the horse, with visions of 
supper animating her tired old limbs, started on at a 
lively pace. Suddenly Dilly pulled her up again, and 
waited until Cherry came up. 

“How did you come down here, and how be you 
a-goin’ to get home ?” she demanded. 

“ I came across lots. I didn’t stop to think how late 
it was, and I took the wrong path,” said Cherry. 

“ Good land ! I shouldn’t think you did stop to 
think,” scolded Dilly. “It’s jest about pitch dark, and 
how be you a-goin’ to get home ?” 

“I shall walk by the road. Perhaps there’ll be a 
moon soon,” said Cherry, not without a little faltering. 

“ The moon don’t rise now till nigh upon ten o’clock, 
and you’d ought to know it. I should like to know what 
they do learn you to the ’cademy.” 

Cherry accepted this rebuke meekly. Ben was con- 
tinually heaping scorn upon her because she never 
knew the times of sunrise or moonrise, or the points of 
the compass. 

Cherry trudged along, while Dilly sat upon her wag- 
on, apparently absorbed in thought, and repressing 
the impatient Jane by absent-minded but emphatic 
“ whoas.” 

“ Here you, Cherry Eastman !” she called, and Cher- 
ry stopped, and waited until the long-suffering Jane 
and the jingling wagon overtook her. 

“You hadn’t no business to come down here, you 
know,” said Dilly. “You hain’t got nothin’ to see me 
for ’thout you can tell me that that long-legged, cross- 


80 


FLYING HILL FARM. 


lookin’ cousin of yours has took back the lie he told. 
And I hain’t no business havin’ nothin’ to say to you ; 
it looks as if I didn’t think nothin’ of how poor father’s 
been laid in a lie. I ain’t forgivin’ you nor nothin’, 
and I don’t want you to think I be, but I wouldn’t see 
nobody, if ’twas an Injun savage, walkin’ over this road, 
that’s full of rocks and thank-you-marms and mud up 
to your ankles, and cornin’ on pitch dark, if ’tw T as so’st 
I could give ’em a lift. So now you jest get up here, 
Cherry Eastman, and I’ll carry you home, but don’t 
you open your mouth to say a single word to me as if 
we was friendly feelin’, ’cause we ain’t!” 

“ I would prefer to walk,” said Cherry, with some 
stateliness; hut her voice wavered a little as she looked 
forward into the darkness, and realized how foot-sore 
and weary she was. 

“ You’d be sick enough of your bargain before you 
come to the turnin’,” said Billy. “ I don’t know as 
you could get there anyhow. You’d like enough be 
found a corp. Now jest step up here, as lively as you 
can. You’re a-keepin’ this poor old horse cretur a-wait- 
in’ for her supper, that’s all you’re doin’ a-standin’ there, 
and father he’s a-waitin’ for me.” 

Cherry found it hitter to accept a favor offered in so 
ungracious a manner. Oh, why had she been so foolish 
as to place herself in this humiliating position ! She 
could not find her way over that dreadful road in the 
darkness; she must go with Billy. And Billy was so 
imperative she dared not hesitate, lest she should turn 
back and leave her. 

She mounted to the seat beside Billy in obedient si- 
lence, and the unhappy Jane, with one long lingering 
look hack towards the shed where rest and supper 
awaited her, took up her patient way over the rough 
road which led to Flying Hill. 


FLYING HILL FARM. 


81 


Poor Cherry felt completely crashed, aad found it a 
boon to obey Billy’s stern mandate not to say a single 
word to her. 

The silence was unbroken, except by the clattering 
of the tins and the creaking of the wagon, until Cherry 
unconsciously shivered with cold. She had become 
very warm with her scramble through the underbrush, 
and now the night-air was chilly. 

“ Be you cold ?” asked Billy, in a not ungentle tone. 
“ Here, you can take this,” taking off her own plaid 
shawl. “ You needn’t be afraid, ’tain’t p’ison ; it’s jest 
as clean as can be.” 

Cherry, not daring to hesitate, allowed herself to be 
wrapped in the shawl. 

“ I can kind o’ wrap this round me,” said Billy, in a 
mollified tone, drawing something from the wagon be- 
hind her. “I don’t expect you noticed it, but it’s a 
hooked rug. I hooked it myself, and it’s jest as hand- 
some as new paint, if I do say it. Land o’ mercy! 
what’s that ?” 

Old Jane neighed, trembled, and stood still, and 
Cherry screamed in terror. Just before them, in the 
road, was a tall shape, light-colored, almost white in 
the darkness. It waved its hands to and fro; then, at 
the sound of Cherry’s cry, it turned. A clump of trees 
hid it, or had it vanished into thin air ? 

“ Oh, Billy, is it — is it the ghost?” faltered Cherry. 

“Ghost?” echoed Billy, in utter scorn. “Who has 
been tellin’ you that stuff? There ain’t no such thing. 
But I’m a-goin’ to find out what it is, if ’tain’t for noth- 
in’ but to stop folks’s gossipin’ tongues!” 

“ Oh, oh, don’t, Billy!” cried Cherry, as Billy jumped 
from the wagon. “Oh, I don’t see how you dare to; 
and I’m afraid I can’t hold Jane, she’s so frightened.” 

6 


82 


FLYING HILL FARM. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

Dilly Gage sprang from tlie wagon, in spite of 
Cherry’s terrified remonstrances. 

“Scairt? Of course I’m scairt ! Folks has got to be 
scairt in this world. But I’m a-goin’ to find out what 
it is, all the same.” 

This was all the answer she made to Cherry’s ap- 
peals to her to come back. 

Cherry did not need this confession to know that 
Dilly was frightened, for the hands which placed the 
reins in hers had trembled. It was evidently a strong 
will which directed the movements of Dilly Gage’s 
slender body. 

Old Jane was becoming unmanageable with fear; 
she seemed to be aware of the absence of her mistress, 
and that strange hands held the reins. Dilly’s voice 
had calmed her at first; now she reared and plunged 
as vigorously as if she were two instead of twenty, and 
then suddenly set into a furious gallop. 

Cherry sent back one despairing cry: “Oh, Dilly, 
Dilly, I can’t hold her !” 

On they went at a wild pace, bumping over rocks 
and logs, tipping half-way over in ruts and pools, fling- 
ing off tins and pails and brushes. At every moment 
Cherry expected to be flung off herself, and she fancied 
that the tall shape which they had seen in the road 
was close behind the wagon. She was cold and numb 
with terror, but she still clung, almost unconsciously, 
with one hand to the reins and with the other to the 
wagon-seat. 


FLYING HILL FA11M. 


83 


Old Jane was not quite wild with terror ; at the 
junction of the woods road with the highway she took 
to the highway at a less furious speed, but it was in 
vain that Cherry, with rising hope and courage, tried 
to stop her. The sound of her voice seemed to in- 
crease her fright. 

Would she be induced to stop at Flying Hill Farm, 
or would she go rushing through the village? They 
were nearing the drive-w'ay. A man with a lantern 
was coming through the great gate. 

“ Oh, Philander, Philander !” cried Cherry, in a voice 
that rang above the clattering tins. 

Philander was at old Jane’s head. She had stopped, 
quivering and rearing, but as Philander spoke to and 
stroked her her head drooped. 

“Good land of nater ! the poor old cretur is about 
done for!” exclaimed Philander. “How come you 
cavortin’ round like all possessed, this time of night, 
Dilly Gage?” 

“ It isn’t Hilly Gage ! Help me down, and then, 
oh, Philander, you must go to the woods road as fast 
as you can and find Hilly Gage. We met a great tall 
white thing that stood in the road and sort of wrung 
his hands, and Hilly followed it to see what it was 
— oh dear! I don't see how she could! — and old Jane 
ran away with me — and I don’t know what has become 
of Hilly!” 

Philander was wholly absorbed in getting old Jane 
out of harness. She seemed weak and was stagger- 
ing. 

“ I don’t calc’late this poor old cretur’ll ever go back 
to the woods road,” he said, pitifully. “She might 
have been good for a consid’able spell of joggin’ along, 
but she’s been doin’ something that wa’n’t joggin’ to- 
night. You’d ought to have knowed, old lady, that 


84 


FLYING HILL FAKM. 


high jinks wa’n’t the thing for you, and have took it 
fair and easy.” 

Philander was very fond of horses. Cherry could 
not even make him understand what danger Dilly was 
in until he had taken care of old Jane. When at length 
she did make him understand, he was disposed to treat 
the matter very lightly. 

“ Land sakes ! you two foolish creturs got scairt of 
a tree, or a cow, or something — gals will,” he said, calm- 
ly. “There was the time you took Widow Pulsifer’s 
clothes-line for a drove of oxen.” 

“Philander, will you hurry, or I shall go and get 
Uncle David to go ? Dilly Gage is down there all 
alone; and — and I don’t suppose it was a ghost, as they 
say — there aren’t any; but it was something very queer 
and large.” 

“I expect mebbe you’d better go into the house. 
They’re consid’able worried about you, seein’ you hain’t 
been heard of sence Miss Rhody see you goin’ across 
towards the woods,” said Philander, in his moderate 
way; “and I’ll hitch up Jupiter into the tin-wagon. 
She’s got to have her wagon, anyhow; and I expect 
she’ll want to see her old hoss once more.” 

“Philander, don't say that old Jane is really going 
to die — don't say so!” cried Cherry. “It will be my 
fault — all my fault.” 

“’Twa’n’t a ghost of your gettin’ up, now, was it?” 
said Philander, with a facetiousness which Cherry felt 
to be altogether out of place. 

“If Dilly hadn’t been driving me home — ” 

Ben came out just then, and Cherry’s story found a 
more appreciative listener than Philander had been. 

“A ghost? How jolly ! I’m going with you, Phi- 
lander, and we’ll take the old rifle and have a crack at 
it. You’re sure it wasn’t a shadow or anything? And 


FLYING HILL FARM. 


85 


all those people have seen it! Weren’t you in luck, 
Cherry ! Yes, I am, too, sorry for the poor old horse 
and for Dilly Gage. But I’ll match her against a 
ghost any time. I’m sorry for the ghost if Billy gets 
him. All ready, Philander? We couldn’t stop for 
Simmy Backup, could we? Simmy would so enjoy a 
ghost!” 

Cherry felt for once inclined to agree with Phonse 
that Ben was hard-hearted. His delight at the pros- 
pect of “ having a crack at the ghost ” seemed to swal- 
low up every other feeling. He helped Philander to 
harness Jupiter, the lively young black horse, into the 
tin-wagon, and they were soon rattling off. 

“ Ho you remember just where I told you that it 
happened?” Cherry called after them. “ On the right- 
hand side of the road, where the tall woods end, near 
Stillman’s pasture, where the blueberries used to be so 
thick.” 

But the wagon made such a noise that it was doubt- 
ful whether they heard, and Cherry turned back, anx- 
ious and miserable, feeling that she ought to have had 
the courage to go with them. 

Phonse had come out, and she poured out the story 
of her adventures into hie ears with greater fulness 
than to the others, especially her meeting with Cally 
Bumpus. 

“You don’t suppose that it — the ghost — could be 
Preserved Gage, do you, Phonse?” she said, eagerly. 
“It doesn’t seem as if a man could get himself up to 
look like that. But it was only for a minute that I 
saw it, and there was no moon — ” 

“You don’t suppose it was a tree or a shadow, or 
that you only imagined it, do you? Its waving its 
hands sounds as if it might be the shadow of a tree, 
you know,” said Phonse. 


86 


FLYING HILL FARM. 


“ I suppose all the other people who have seen some- 
thing strange down there must have imagined it!” said 
Cherry, who was losing her patience at these suggestions. 

“ I think old Gage might be up to a trick like that,” 
said Phonse, meditatively. 

“ But Dilly doesn’t know it if it is he,” said Cherry. 
“ She wouldn’t have done as she did.” 

“ She might only have been trying to pull wool over 
your eyes,” said Phonse. 

“She wasn’t. I w T on’t believe it of her,” said Cher- 
ry, with decision. “ She needn’t have offered to bring 
me home; it was good of her — if she was rather cross 
about it.” 

But Phonse had found old Jane, and was oblivious 
of everything else in his pity for her. Philander had 
made her as comfortable as possible in a stall, but she 
was breathing with difficulty, and now and then she 
shook convulsively. 

“I’m going to run down the hill and get Dr. Clinch 
to come and look at her. I think she is suffering, and 
he may know how to relieve her,” he said, running off 
at full speed. 

Dr. Clinch was a veterinary surgeon, a repairer of 
clocks and watches, a cobbler, and a maker of root- 
beer, and defied the old saying about a “ Jack-at-all- 
trades” by being good at each of these varied pur- 
suits, and really famous in the root-beer line. More- 
over, he had painted with his own hands the signs 
which were displayed upon his little weather-beaten 
house: the large one which hung over the door, creak- 
ing in the wind, like the sign upon an old English inn, 
displaying a yellow-and-white horse upon a reddish 
background ; the small one over the window, which 
showed a clock and a watch, painted with strict impar- 
tiality in respect to size ; and the one nailed onto the 


FLYING HILL FARM. 


87 


end of the bouse, which, under the pictorial representa- 
tion of boots and shoes, announced, in letters sufficient- 
ly large to indicate that this industry led all the rest: 

And wrooT beeR. 

Domestic beer-making had almost ceased in Byerly, 
on account of the inimitable excellence of Clinch’s 
beer, and he guarded the secret of its preparation with 
jealous care, although, perhaps, if the truth w T ere 
known, the secret was not very different from that of 
the old woman in the story who bequeathed it as a 
priceless legacy to a deserving youth — it was made of 
roots. 

Dr. Clinch was a great friend of Phonse’s, although 
the fact that he showed an interest in the performing 
pig had of late proved a strain upon Phonse’s regard. 
The doctor, who was a bachelor and did all the house- 
work of his establishment, was busy at his weekly 
ironing when Plionse arrived, but he did not hesitate 
to leave the iron scorching his best table-cloth to hurry 
off with Phonse to old Jane’s relief. 

In the mean time Cherry had felt it to be unpleas- 
antly necessary to go into the house and report her- 
self. She wished that she need not tell the story all 
over again; but perhaps Uncle David would take some 
other measures to find Dilly. Ben and Philander 
seemed to be thinking chiefly of finding the ghost. 

But Uncle David, when she had told her tale, seem- 
ed chiefly concerned about her share in it. He looked 
very much annoyed, as nearly angry as he often look- 
ed, and he said, quite severely : 

“ Loveday, these girls must have a governess, or go 
away to school, if you can’t see that they behave with 
ordinary propriety. Such escapades as this will make 
us the talk of the town.” 


88 


FLYING HILL FARM. 


“ I don’t see why you should say these girls, papa,” 
said Rhoda, in a deeply aggrieved tone. “ I’m sure I 
don’t get lost in Roaring Brook woods, or drive around 
on a tin -peddler’s wagon with Dilly Gage, or kill 
horses, or — or anything; and if Cherry would listen to 
me — but she never will.” 

There was no doubt that Rhoda was entitled to her 
grievance. Her father, perhaps from a strong desire 
to avoid showing a natural partiality for his daughter, 
was very apt to make her a sharer in the rebukes which 
he administered to Cherry. 

“It’s a good thing if one of you behaves well,” he 
said, carelessly now. And then, as he looked at Cher- 
ry’s dejected face, he added more gently, almost as gen- 
tly as Uncle David knew how to speak: “ Well, well, it’s 
of no use to fret; it can’t be helped now. Go and eat 
your supper, child, and I’ll saddle Rory, and ride down 
the Roaring Brook road. It’s a dark night, and I sup- 
pose that girl must be looked after.” It was evidently 
rather a sense of duty than a feeling of sympathy that 
led Uncle David to go in search of “that girl,” and 
Cherry’s sense of guilt was not lessened by the knowl- 
edge that he was sacrificing the quiet evening with his 
books, which he dearly prized after a fatiguing day, 
for a ride in a chilling east wind, which would be not 
unlikely to bring on an attack of rheumatism. 

“I bring trouble upon every one,” thought Cherry, 
despairingly, “even Rhoda.” For Rhoda, who was 
very sensitive to any reproof from her father, was 
weeping gently, like a well-ordered heroine, into her 
dainty handkerchief. Rhoda was never tumultuous, 
like Cherry, but was so gentle and pretty in her tears 
that one felt doubly wicked for having caused them. 

“ I’m orfly sorry, Rhoda, that you should get scolded 
for me,” she said, contritely. 


FLYING HILL FARM. 


89 


“I do think you might have a little more considera- 
tion for me ; every one says ‘ those girls,’ as if we were 
just alike,” said Rhoda, brokenly. “If you had cared 
about those Gage people as I did, it would have been 
different ; but I did something sensible. I can’t think 
what you went down there for.” 

As Cherry was silent, perhaps because she felt it 
quite impossible to give a satisfactory account of her- 
self to Rhoda, the latter went on, in an aggrieved tone : 

“ I think it is very hard to have people talk as if it 
were Loveday’s place to look after us, just as if we 
were children. It is very unfair to me, at least, for no 
one could possibly say that I needed looking after. I 
think papa ought to recognize me as the mistress of 
the house.” 

Rhoda said it with some hesitation ; the boys hoot- 
ed at such pretensions in a way that was very trying 
to her dignity ; she liked to be sure that neither of 
them, nor that dreadful little Simmy Backup, was with- 
in hearing. 

“Oh, what does it matter? You’re always thinking 
about such things. If you were to blame because Dilly 
Gage is down in those woods, in the darkness, with 
something dreadful — a great tall thing, wringing his 
hands, nobody knows what — chasing her, perhaps, and 
you’d killed her poor old horse that she thinks every- 
thing of, you wouldn’t care about being mistress of 
the house,” cried Cherry, her voice shrill with excite- 
ment. 

“I should never get into such dreadful — scrapes /” 
Ben’s favorite word came out oddly in Rhoda’s lady- 
like little tones. “I don’t know a girl — not another 
girl who does.” 

“ I don’t care what you say to me, not if you talk 
till midnight. Sometimes I do; but I have something 


90 


FLYING IIILL FARM. 


else to think of now. You just seem little to me — ev- 
tking about you.” 

Cherry flung out this defiance, still in her shrill, ex- 
cited tone. She had said “ horrid things ” to Rhoda 
before, but always with an underlying consciousness 
that she should soon repent and ask her forgiveness. 
Now she was determined that she never would. She 
felt utterly wicked and miserable. She was in deep 
waters, and they might as well go over her head. She 
would never make up with Rhoda ! And even this 
awful resolution scarcely kept her thoughts for a mo- 
ment from Dilly Gage. She started up suddenly and 
ran out into the road. Phonse and Dr. Clinch were 
just going into the barn. She could not endure to 
hear that old Jane was going to die, and she felt sure 
there was nothing more hopeful to be heard. She 
walked up and down the road in the darkness, waiting 
and listening. 

There w T as the sound of horse’s hoofs at last; it was 
Uncle David riding rapidly. 

“ Oh yes, they have found her,” he said, in answer 
to Cherry’s anxious inquiry; “she had walked almost 
to the highway. I don’t think she pursued the ghost 
for a great distance. What are you out here for ? Go 
in directly.” 

Cherry obeyed by going to the barn. Her spirits 
had risen a little with the knowledge that Dilly was 
safe. Uncle David’s sarcastic tone suggested that he 
thought Dilly’s pursuit of the ghost a pretence. Cher- 
ry was sure that it had not been. She knew that Dilly 
had been frightened, and she remembered the ring of 
resolution in her voice. Whatever her father might 
be, Dilly herself was honest; of that Cherry was con- 
vinced. 

In the barn Dr. Clinch was working over old Jane. 


FLYING IIILL FARM. 


91 


Tilcly had brought out hot water, and some stimulant 
had been poured down old Jane’s throat, and she had 
been vigorously rubbed. No one would believe, see- 
ing Phonse now, that he was constitutionally lazy, and 
had an almost morbid dislike of the physically disa- 
greeable. He was ready to do anything for the old 
horse, wholly forgetful of himself. 

Uncle David put up Rory himself, and joined the 
little group around old Jane. Dr. Clinch had moved 
her out of the stall into freer air. 

“ A hopeless case, isn’t it, doctor?” said Uncle David. 

“I’m afeard so, sir,” said the doctor. He was a 
small man, with a very large head, which he had a way 
of shaking with professional gravity. “ I expect her 
in’ard machinery was about run down, anyhow ; come 
to take a spurt like that, it finished her up.” 

The rattle of the tin-wagon was heard in the drive- 
way, and in another moment Dilly rushed in. She 
pushed Phonse aside, and dropping upon the floor, 
took old Jane’s head into her lap. “It’s me, Jane,” 
she said. 

The dying creature actually made a movement, and 
tried to make a sound of recognition. 

“She knows me! she knows me!” said Dilly, bro- 
kenly. “But she’s a-dyin’, ain’t she?” 

The little horse-doctor, to whom she looked up ap- 
pealingly, nodded gravely. 

“ You can’t do nothin’, nothin ’ to save her, can you?” 
cried Dilly; and the little man shook his head. 

“Pm afeard not,” he said, with a lump in his throat. 

“Nothing but an old horse!” said Tildy, tossing her 
ringlets and tittering. 

Dilly turned upon her fiercely. “No, it ain’t noth- 
in’ but an old horse, but it’s about all I ever had to 
think anything of or that thought anything of me. 


92 


FLYING HILL FARM. 


We’ve been comp’ny for one another when ’twas orfle 
lonesome. And she’s done for me, and I’ve done for 
her. I’ve took the quilt off my bed to cover her up 
many a freezin’ night. And I’ve carried her my vict- 
uals when father didn’t know it. He’s — he’s kind of 
close and scairt for fear there won’t be enough, father 
is. And she’s ’most a human cretur, old Jane is ; she 
knows a sight more’n some folks. And there wa’n’t 
never nobody else in the world that was glad to see 
me — ” 

“There, there, sissy, it ain’t no use,” said the little 
horse-doctor, gently, drawing her away. “The poor 
cretur’s gone.” 

Dilly’s voice had broken into sobs, but she choked 
them back at once, and arose to her feet with an air 
of dignity. 

“I’m a-goin’ to get Jake Pitkin to come after her 
with his wagon, and have her buried kind of decent. 
It don’t make no difference to me if folks do make 
fun. They don’t know nothin’ about it. She was my 
horse. Oh, how be I goin’ to get along without her?” 
The practical side of her loss seemed to have struck 
Dilly for the first time. “Seems as if you folks -was 
bound to bring trouble on me !” she burst forth, as if 
she had entirely lost her self-control. “Seems as if 
you might let poor folks alone that never done you no 
harm, and never had no good times, nor nothin’ that 
you do. I guess God made Roarin’ Brook folks, and 
he ain’t a-goin’ to let ’em be sot on always. That’s 
what old Mis’ Fickett says, and she’s ’most ninety.” 

Dilly’s accusations were received in silence. Uncle 
David looked annoyed, but patient. Phonse, who had 
deeply sympathized with her about her horse, feeling 
surprise that Dilly Gage had feelings like other peo- 
ple, was scowling at her now. Cherry ran to get Dilly 




u 


n 


THK DEATH OK OLD 


JANE. 











. 


FLYING HILL FAKM. 


93 


her shawl, and put it around her shoulders in silence. 
She would have liked to thank her, and to say that she 
was sorry about old Jane, but she shrank from Dilly’s 
snubbing remarks. 

Dilly mounted her wagon, and Philander got up be- 
side her. It was plain to see that Philander, who was 
eminently a man of peace, shrank a little from driving 
Dilly home. 

Dilly called back, after Philander had started the 
horse, “ Look here, you, Cherry Eastman, mebbe you 
ain’t so bad.” 

“ She’s a case !” remarked Ben. “And now, the next 
thing is to find out what that ghost is, and Simmy 
Backup, Philander, and I are going to do it.” 


CHAPTER IX. 

“Ben, you won’t shoot until you find out what it is, 
will you ?” said Cherry, anxiously. 

It was towards twilight of the next day. Ben and 
Simmy Backup had been working away at the old 
rifle, the only weapon of which family prejudices al- 
lowed them possession, all day. They had oiled it in- 
numerable times, and polished it until it shone ; and 
this being the first day of vacation, their minds were 
entirely occupied with the prospect of, as Ben express- 
ed it, “having a crack at the ghost.” Ben never shot 
birds ; he was a thoughtful boy, and he had a deep sense 
of the cruelty of wantonly taking innocent lives, but 
being a boy, he did delight to fire a gun, and rejoiced 
in a legitimate opportunity, such as this seemed to him. 
He had a very vague idea of what the ghost might 
be. “Of course it isn’t a real story-book ghost, you 


94 


FLYING IIILL FARM. 


know,” he had said, over and over again, to Simmy 
Backup, who cherished a secret opinion that it was, 
and suggested that balls would probably go through it 
without producing any effect. This was an interest- 
ing and comfortable theory, but Ben had far too well- 
ordered an imagination to accept it. He was some- 
what inclined to agree with Loveday that it was 
probably some wild creature, a late survival of those 
that used to have their haunts on Tumble Down Hill, 
in spite of the fact that, as described by Cherry, it was 
much larger than a wild-cat or a fox, the only animals 
which had been found in that region within any one’s 
recollection. The fact was that Cherry’s description 
was but lightly regarded ; she was popularly supposed 
to have been too frightened to be a reliable witness. 
It was somewhat irritating to her to have the opinion 
still openly maintained by Philander that the terrify- 
ing object had been only a shadow or a stray cow. 
When she inquired, pertinently, whether a cow could 
walk on two legs, he facetiously reminded her of the 
cow that jumped over the moon as a proof that acro- 
batic skill had not been unknown to the race. Cherry 
thought it Pliilander’s greatest failing that he never 
knew when to joke, and it must be admitted that such 
knowledge is a cardinal point in the art of being 
agreeable. 

The information which Ben and Philander had been 
able to obtain from Dilly Gage had been even less sat- 
isfactory than Cherry’s account. She had seen some- 
thing in the road which “ stood still and kind of beck- 
oned.” When she had pursued it she had heard a 
rustling in the bushes. Simmy Backup considered the 
latter fact important, for the ghosts of which he had 
heard made no noise. He said hopefully, however, that 
it might have been the wind that rustled the leaves. 


FLYING DILL FARM. 


95 


Philander said that “before he wore out any shoe- 
luther a -huntin’ ghosts he was a-goin’ over to the 
Widow Pulsifer’s to see whether one of her cows 
hadn’t got astray. There was one of ’em that always 
had a hankerin’ for strayin’ into the woods.” 

It was a singular fact that although such wonder- 
ful things had happened to Philander, he always sug- 
gested the most commonplace explanations of other 
wonderful happenings. He never would believe that 
anything surprising had happened to anybody but 
himself — which was certainly a little provoking. 

Cherry had summoned sufficient courage to ask 
Uncle David what he thought about it, although the 
subject was apparently annoying to him. 

“Don’t ask foolish questions, Cherry. How do I 
know what it is?” he said, impatiently. “People like 
those in the Roaring Brook settlement have such a 
love of the marvellous, and such a habit of inaccurate 
statement, that it is impossible- to form an opinion 
from what they say. It’s possible that old Gage — if 
he is able to go out — may be trying to frighten peo- 
ple, so that he can enjoy a ramble now and then with- 
out discovery.” 

“ It wasn’t he in the road last night,” said Cherry, 
confidently. “If it had been, I don’t think old Jane 
would have been so frightened. And oh, Uncle David, 
I don’t want to trouble you, but I can’t help thinking 
that if Dilly hadn’t been so kind as to bring me home, 
if I hadn’t been there where — where I needn’t have 
gone, she wouldn’t have lost her horse. And there’s 
my twenty-five dollars, that Aunt Adam gave me, in 
the bank ; it’s more than that now, with the interest. 
I should like to give it .to Hilly towards buying an- 
other horse.” 

“ Perhaps you would better. I have been thinking 


96 


FLYING HILL FARM. 


that something must he done for her,” said Uncle Da- 
vid. “Lucius Perry has an old horse, quite good 
enough for the tin -peddling business, that can be 
bought for a hundred dollars, or less. I will get 
your money from the bank, and add enough to it to 
buy the horse, and you shall give it to Dilly Gage.” 

“It’s — it’s so very good of you, Uncle David !” said 
Cherry, struggling with the break in her voice — for 
Uncle David didn’t like tears, even of gratitude. 
“And — and I’m not going to be a — a trouble to you 
long, Uncle David; I’m going to take care of myself.” 

“ There, there, child, don’t talk nonsense. Of course 
you’re going to do great things; all the girls are now- 
adays. Ask Loveday what she thinks of crowing 
hens. Perhaps you mean to go into business, like 
your friend Dilly Gage.” 

Uncle David was smiling and good-natured, so 
Cherry didn’t care how much he made fun of her. 
Her spirits came up with a bound, and she ran to find 
Phonse to confide to him her delightful prospect of 
making amends to Dilly Gage. 

Cherry and Phonse had tacitly made up their little 
disagreement. Phonse understood perfectly that Cher- 
ry’s exploration in the Roaring Brook settlement had 
been a substitute for the revelation which she had 
threatened to make to Uncle David. There had been 
a moment when, in his extreme sympathy for Dilly, 
he almost hoped she had told. Dilly could not be dis- 
honest, since she had so great an aifection for her old 
horse. This was illogical, but it was Phonse’s view. 
Dilly’s fierce attack had weakened his sympathy, but, 
on the whole, he had been left with a stronger doubt 
whether the right had triumphed in the railroad case, 
and a more unhappy feeling about his own share in 
the matter. 


FLYING HILL FAEM. 


97 


He was very satisfactorily sympathetic with Cherry’s 
delight in the prospect of a horse for Dilly Gage. He 
even accepted her invitation to go with her to tell 
Dilly about it as soon as it was certain that Lucius 
Perry would sell the horse. 

The invitation which Ben extended to him to go 
hunting for the mysterious apparition Phonse stead- 
fastly declined. His aversion to fire-arms was as great 
as any girl’s. 

“ They ought not to be allowed to carry that rifle,” 
he said to Cherry. “ Of what use is it for Uncle 
David to make them promise to be careful ? They 
haven’t any sense when it’s a question of making any- 
thing go off. Philander is nothing but a boy when 
he gets a gun into his hand. Don’t you remember 
how proud he was because his sister’s husband’s uncle, 
who had something to do with the Fourth of July cel- 
ebration over at Chelmsborough, let him touch off the 
cannon? He said, every day for a month, that he 
ought to have been a soldier, that ever since he smell- 
ed powder he’d been ‘ a-thirstin’ for glory.’ ” 

Cherry admitted that she had observed this sort of 
weakness in Philander, but she believed, nevertheless, 
that his discretion might be depended upon in this en- 
terprise. She even expressed the opinion that Ben had 
plenty of sense. 

“ Don’t tell me. I know boys. They want to kill 
something,” said Phonse, with gloomy superiority. 

Ben responded somewhat impatiently to Cherry’s 
appeal not to shoot “until he had found out what it 
was.” It must be admitted that Cherry had said it 
more than once. 

The trio went gayly off at twilight, Philander hav- 
ing gone through his milking and his chores at a great 
pace, and the boys having entirely neglected to put 
7 


98 


FLYING HILL FARM. 


Garibaldi through his afternoon exercises, notwith- 
standing the fact that Simmy hoped to get an “ en- 
gagement” for him with a “Great Moral and Intel- 
lectual Show ” which was now making a circuit of the 
adjoining towns and was expected to appear in By- 
erly before long. 

Philander had previously gone over to the Widow 
Pulsifer’s and discovered that none of her cows had 
gone astray — “that, in fact, the one with a tendency of 
that kind had long ago reformed ; and he was evident- 
ly well pleased that he could sacrifice his “ shoe-luther ” 
without feeling that it was all “boys’ foolishness,” as 
he expressed it, or that he was likely to bring ridicule 
upon himself. In truth, Philander was as eager for 
the adventure as either of the boys. 

The twilight was already deep in the woods road 
which led to Roaring Brook, and a rising wind wailed 
mournfully in the tops of the great pine-trees. 

“I don’t know but we had better have come some 
day when Philander could get through his work ear- 
lier,” said Simmy Backup. It was a noticeable fact 
that Simmy had ceased to joke, and to boast of his 
prowess with a gun, just as they turned from the high- 
way into the woods road. Simmy concealed from his 
nearest friends, sometimes even from himself, the un- 
pleasant truth that he was not lion-hearted, but dark- 
ness in the woods was one of the things that would 
bring it home to him. Even now he insisted to him- 
self that he was not afraid ; it was only one of his 
peculiarities — heroes often had them — to dislike dark- 
ness. He had made a gallant stand against this weak- 
ness. As long ago as when he wore dresses and his 
mother put him in his bed at night he had lain in 
trembling terror, seeing grinning Indian heads in the 
carved pineapples on the posters of his old-fashioned 


FLYING- HILL FARM. 


99 


bedstead, and goblins in the waving tree- shadows on 
the wall, and there were times now when the shadow 
of the old ship’s figure-head upon the mantle, be- 
queathed to them by some seafaring relative, looked 
exactly like a witch astride a broomstick. Of course 
he minded none of those things now, and he recalled 
with pride the fact that he had never cried for a light, 
never told any one that he was afraid. One may be 
naturally timid without being a coward, or if one is a 
coward, it is half the battle not to let any one know it; 
that was the theory that Simmy Backup half uncon- 
sciously adopted, and if he overshot the mark in mak- 
ing all the small boys of Byerly regard him with open- 
mouthed admiration as a hero who was going to be 
the most redoubtable cowboy ever heard of, or a pirate 
like Captain Kidd, or a lion-tamer who should ride in 
a golden chariot in the circus procession and appear in 
the performance in a cage with five furious beasts — if 
Simmy did all this, I am quite sure that it was with- 
out any conscious deceit. Like Philander, he “ thirst- 
ed for glory,” and it was only sometimes that he real- 
ized that a natural lack of courage stood in the way of 
his ever attaining his ambitions. 

Simmy was afraid he had revealed too much as soon 
as he had made that remark about having come too 
late. “ We can’t see very well, and he might get away, 
you know,” he explained. 

“There’s goin’ to be a moon before ten o’clock if 
them black clouds don’t hide it,” said Philander, cheer- 
fully. 

Before ten o’clock! Were they to stay until that 
time in those dark and dreary woods? said Simmy to 
himself, and wondered what he had been thinking of 
to be so eager for the expedition. Of course nothing 
less than this desperate courage was to be expected of 


100 


FLYING HILL FA KM. 


Philander, who, according to his own narratives, had 
shot seven-headed panthers in the Goorygilloo Mount- 
ains, and a shark that had swallowed a steamer in the 
Polar Sea. (Geographical indefiniteness and discrep- 
ancy were not thought to detract in the least from the 
charm of Philander’s stories.) 

“ ’Twas jest right along about here that they see the 
cretur — or thought they did; ’twon’t do to put no 
great dependence on gals,” said Philander, shaking his 
head wisely. “ We’ll kind of walk along towards the 
settlement, some of us inside the fence and some of us 
outside.” 

“I think I’ll keep outside the fence,” said Simmy, 
quickly. “It was outside when they saw it, you 
know,” he added. 

“ Land sakes ! I don’t expect it’s nothing but a wild- 
goose chase,” said Philander. “But mebbe it’ll kind 
of make the women-folks feel easier in their minds. I 
expect we might go through this piece of woods clear 
to the settlement forty times without cornin’ acrost it 
— if ’twas anything more’n a shadder.” 

“ I shall holler out, 4 Halt there, or I’ll fire !’ ” said 
Simmy, who, reassured by Philander’s doubts, was be- 
ginning to feel more valiant. 

“ Perhaps we’d better go and get some of those fel- 
lows at the settlement who have seen it to go with us,” 
suggested Ben. 

“ We’ll keep along towards the settlement anyhow; 
there’s where it ’pears mostly,” said Philander. 

He had climbed the fence and was going into the 
deep woods, and Ben followed him. 

“ I b’lieve I’ll keep along in the road,” said Simmy. 
“You want your lantern, don’t you, Philander ? I wish 
I’d brought one.” 

“We don’t want to light the lantern anyhow if we 


FLYING HILL FARM. 


101 


can help it,” said Philander, with decision. “’Twould 
be apt to frighten the cretur away.” 

In another moment Philander’s voice rang out from 
the woods. 

“Simmy! Simmy Backup! what be you a-whistlin’ 
for? Be you a-tryin’ to scare the cretur away?” 

Simmy felt aggrieved that Philander shouldn’t un- 
derstand that it was absolutely necessary for a boy to 
whistle to keep up his courage under such circum- 
stances. 

“I b’lieve I’ll go into the woods with them,” he said 
to himself. “ I’m not afraid, but it’s orfle lonesome. 
Besides, they won’t keep along near the road all the 
way. I thought by the sound of Philander’s voice that 
they were getting farther away.” 

But when Simmy approached the fence and peered 
into the darkness of the woods he drew back. 

“ I should have to go a good ways to find ’em,” he 
reflected, “and if I keep hollerin’ Philander ’ll be mad; 
he’s so afraid of making a noise. It isn’t a bit like 
Ben to go off and leave a fellow like this, and not care 
whether he’s all alone or not. He’s so excited about 
finding the thing that he doesn’t think of anything 
else; but if he really should I guess he’d be frightened 
enough!” 

And then Simmy sprang back suddenly. His heart 
beat like a trip-hammer, and he fairly shook with ter- 
ror. A huge black object was close upon him. Sim- 
my wondered how it was possible that he had not seen 
it coming. It was almost near enough to seize him. 
He ran back a little way’; the great black object seemed 
to follow him, but he was not quite sure that it did. 

Simmy determined to take himself in hand, like a 
man. 

' “I’m not going to holler, anyhow!” he said to him- 


102 


FLYING HILL FARM. 


self, setting his teeth firmly together. “ If I only had 
the rifle I’d say, ‘ Hullo there ! who are you ?' Halt, or 
I’ll fire.’ ” 

But Philander had the rifle, and there was no know- 
ing how far away Philander might be. 

“I think I’ll speak to it, anyway,” said Simmy to 
himself. But it was very difficult; he didn’t seem to 
have any voice, or if he had it had slipped away down 
into his boots. Simmy thought of the Spartan boy, 
and of “ him who held the bridge in the brave days of 
old,” and of Casabianca on the burning deck, and by 
a mighty effort he recovered his voice. 

“ Stop there, now ! Who are you ?” he called, in a 
stern and challenging tone, which was certainly calcu- 
lated to conceal the quaking of his heart. 

There was no answer, but the huge object seemed to 
be coming nearer. 

Simmy turned to run. He hated to, but he had his 
own opinion about what Casabianca or the bridge fel- 
low would have done in the Roaring Brook woods road, 
in the dark, with a huge creature like that pursuing 
him. 

Just at that moment he heard voices which sounded 
very near. 

“Philander! Ben! quick! I’ve got him! Bring the 
rifle, quick !” 

Ben and Philander both came over the fence at a 
bound. 

“ Where is it? where ? where?” they cried in chorus. 

“ See! it isn’t white, it’s orfle black, and when I first 
saw it it was galloping right at me!” said Simmy, in 
an awe-stricken whisper. 

Philander had lighted his lantern, finding it impossi- 
ble to make his way in the woods without a light. He 
advanced towards the object at which Simmy pointed, 











































FLYING- HILL FARM. 


103 


holding up his lantern, and he laughed a great roaring 
laugh which echoed through the woods. 

“Well, I snum, Simmy Backup! To think of your 
gettin’ scairt of this old blackened tree -trunk, that’s 
stood here on the aidge of the burnt piece till all of 
us knowed it by heart! I don’t want to hurt your feel- 
in’s, Simmy, but I expect you’d ought to be at home 
’long of your mother, I really expect you had! Come 
a-gallopin’ right towards you, did it? Well, now, I 
wouldn’t have expected such doin’s of that old burnt 
tree, long as I’ve knowed it!” 

It was hard, very hard, especially as Ben laughed, 
too, and indulged in a few little jeers of his own. As 
good a fellow as Ben was, he couldn’t help being a boy. 
It was so easy to see, with a lantern, what that old 
blackened tree -trunk was! He couldn’t possibly un- 
derstand how he could have thought it was coming 
towards him. And yet, when one was hurrying along, 
in the darkness, with a fast-beating heart and an ex- 
pectation of seeing something, to help on one’s imagi- 
nation, that was really not very extraordinary. 

Simmy said to himself that it ought to be a consola- 
tion that although he had always been a coward no 
one had ever found him out or suspected him before, 
but this fact seemed rather to add to the bitterness of 
his mortification. (I have reason to think that Ben had 
had suspicions on this subject which he never confided 
to any one. Although he was sometimes quite overcome 
by his sense of humor, Ben knew how to be a friend.) 

“Look -a- here! If these ain’t the curousest tracks 
I ever did see, right along here by this burnt tree!” ex- 
claimed Philander. “You can foller ’em right acrost 
the road, in the mud, and right there the cretur must 
have gone over the fence into the woods! Now, what 
kind of a four-legged cretur that was it beats me to 


104 


FLYING HILL FARM. 


tell! ’Twa’n’t a beef cretur, nor a horse, that’s certain. 
The ground’s consid’able soft along towards the swamp, 
and right down muddy in spots. If the cretur went 
t hat way we could track him easy enough, if ’twas day- 
tiine. I don’t know but what we could with the lan- 
tern. I declare, Simmy, for all we laughed at you, I 
don’t know but what the credit of findin’ that there 
appearition will belong to you, for we might never 
have noticed them tracks if we hadn’t been lookin’ 
partickler at that tree! I snum if they don’t look like 
great paws! Well, I always run of an idee ’twas a 
four-legged ghost.” 

“Oh, don’t let’s wait till to-morrow,” cried Ben, ex- 
citedly. 

“ See, the tracks are quite fresh, and they’re as plain 
as can be on the other side of the fence.” He had 
seized the lantern from Philander’s hand, and was 
holding it over the fence. “Come on ! it’s worth the 
while to take some trouble now we know there really 
is something.” 

Simmy was over the fence almost as soon as Ben 
was. His courage had mounted with the occasion. 
Philander followed, grumbling a little. To tell the 
truth, Philander would have much preferred to defer 
the expedition until daylight. 


CHAPTER X. 

It was difficult to follow the tracks through the 
bushes by the light of the lantern; so difficult that if 
they had not soon led into a wide path — once a logging 
road, and the same one by which Cherry had gone 
“ across lots ” to the Roaring Brook settlement — even 


FLYING HILL FARM. 


105 


Ben might have lost his zeal. Having reached the 
path, the maker of those queer tracks had evidently 
gone comfortably along it, having, apparently, a taste 
for easy walking, and no objection to meeting a trav- 
eller. 

“ Philander, don’t you think it may be a panther ?” 
said Ben, who had stopped, for the twentieth time, to 
peer at the tracks. 

“ There ain’t no tellin’. There’s so many creturs’ 
tracks that look consid’able alike,” said Philander. 
<: But how a wild cretur come in these woods — ” 

“ Don’t be afraid, Ben. If you’ll let me take the 
rifle, Philander, I’ll go ahead,” said Simmy, stoutly. 

“ I guess I’ll keep holt of the rifle. I hain’t forgot 
what the squire’s directions was. Besides, we can’t 
afford to use up our ammunition on burnt stumps,” said 
Philander, cruelly. 

Simmy kept very near to Philander’s elbow, but 
then he may have been influenced by a regard for the 
rifle. Fire-arms were not approved of in Simmy’s fam- 
ily; he had never fired at any more exciting game than 
a crow — which went cawing on its way far above his 
head. Now his heart burned within him to fire the 
rifle at — a panther, perhaps ! Ben knew a great deal 
about most things. If Ben thought it was a panther 
that had made those tracks, Simmy thought he was 
probably right. 

The terrors that Simmy endured in those dark woods, 
with awful shadows which looked like anything in the 
world but shadows, following and gliding along beside 
him, with strange, startling noises overhead and under- 
foot, cannot be lightly told. Once he barely escaped 
crying out with fright; it was when a tall white birch, 
its leafless branches draped with light-colored swaying 
moss, appeared suddenly before him. Here was the 


106 


FLYING HILL FAKM. 


ghost, he thought — the very one that had waved its 
hands at Cherry and Dilly Gage! How glad he was 
that he had set his teeth tightly together and smoth- 
ered the cry, when he saw what it was. They would 
never have ceased to jeer at him if they had known 
that he had been frightened by another tree ! 

“And now the thing is to find out which one of 
these tracks the cretur took,” said Philander, as they 
came to the old logging camp, where the three paths 
branched off, the place where Cherry had gone astray 
the day before. 

“ Hold up the lantern, Philander ! Here are the 
tracks in this path, the one that leads right down to 
the settlement,” called Ben. 

“ And here they are in this one !” said Simmy, who 
had gone a few steps, only a very few, alone, into an- 
other path, and was feeling about on the ground in the 
darkness. 

“ Well, they’re in every one, and that’s a fact,” said 
Philander, who had been exploring the third path for 
quite a distance. “The cretur must have been kind 
of promenadin’ round here, and takin’ things easy. 
Don’t seem as if it could have been a wild cretur ! 
But I’ll tell you what, boys, it ain’t a mite o* use for 
us to foller him to-night, if he’s gone down one of them 
paths that fetch up in the underbrush. It’s as much as 
anybody can do to get through that in broad daylight. 
We’ll jest go down towards the settlement, and if we 
don’t find him, why, that’ll fetch us out into the road 
again, and we can get home easy. The fact is there 
ain’t no sense in such a hunt as this, exceptin’ by day- 
light.” 

“We sha’n’t find him, then, I’m afraid,” said Ben. 
“No one has ever caught a glimpse of him by day- 
light. I’m afraid Philander is getting old,” he added, 


f 



“‘HERE ARE TRACKS,’ SIMMY, SAID WHO HAD GONE A FEW STEPS INTO 
ANOTHER PATH, AND WAS FEELING ABOUT ON THE GROUND.” 







-'X. 


FLYING HILL FARM. 10 7 

in a low tone, to Simmy. “ You and I might go alone 
down into the underbrush.” 

“ We — we might,” said Simmy. “And I — I would 
like to, only — only, you know, they’ve seen him down 
at the settlement. Perhaps we should be more likely 
to find him down that way.” 

If Simmy began his answer haltingly, he ended it 
with the air of having originated a brilliant idea. And 
if Ben permitted himself to smile, knowingly, it was 
under cover of the darkness. 

“ Hark ! what’s that ?” exclaimed Ben. “ I thought 
I heard a noise in the old logging camp. There it is 
again! Do you suppose there is any one in there? 
Philander, bring back the lantern! I’m going to find 
out what that noise is.” 

Philander, with the lantern, had taken to the settle- 
ment path. He was, to use his own expression, “not 
nigh so frisky as he was thirty years ago,” and getting 
very tired with his day’s work, was in the habit of be- 
taking himself to his bed at a very early hour. Al- 
though the mysterious tracks had aroused a hunter’s 
eagerness in him at first, aching joints and sleepiness 
were now leading him to return to his original doubts 
whether the hunt were not all “ boys’ foolishness.” 

He retraced his steps somewhat reluctantly. “ I ex- 
pect it ain’t nothin’ but the wind, or the old logs 
a-creakin’. Folks can always hear noises if they’re 
a-listenin’ for ’em; ’tain’t never so still as what it ap- 
pears to be,” said Philander, “ and you boys are so kind 
of wrought up that I expect you can hear a sight of 
noises that ain’t there.” 

Nevertheless, Philander himself, when he came near, 
heard a noise as of some one moving about in the old 
logging camp. And when they tried the door they 
found that it was fastened. 


108 


FLYING HILL FARM. 


“ That door has always stood open !” whispered Ben, 
excitedly. 

“I run of an idee that it’s always been fastened,” 
said Philander. “I can’t exactly remember, but they’d 
most likely have left it so. That window is boarded 
up, anyhow ” — shaking it vigorously. “ Mebbe some 
tramp has got in there for a night’s shelter. Holloa, 
there! Anybody inside?” 

There was no answer, and the noise had ceased. 

“ I’ll tell you what it is, boys,” said Philander. “ If 
there’s anybody there it’s old Jakey Fern, the herb 
doctor. He lays round most anywhere he can, summer 
nights; and summer before last he stayed in this old 
camp as much as six weeks. He won’t go to the poor- 
house, exceptin’ for winter-quarters. When he has one 
of his cranky fits he won’t speak to nobody.” 

“ Those tracks are all around the door,” said Ben, 
doubtfully. 

“They’re a-goin’ along the path by the door,” said 
Philander. “ Mebbe you think a wild cretur has fast- 
ened himself in there ? If he had, I don’t know what 
we could do about it. We couldn’t break that door 
down, and it wouldn’t do to go to firin’ into it permisco- 
ous. There, it beats all how foolish boys can be ! The 
beasts of the forest don’t take to houses where folks 
has lived, like that. I calc’late we h ain’t no manner 
of business to rout up old Jakey Fern, ’thout he’s a 
mind to let us, so we’d better be goin’ on. ’Long about 
the forepart of to-morrow afternoon, if I can get away, 
I’m a-goin’ to foller them tracks down into the under- 
brush; that is, if we don’t come acrost nothin’ down 
towards the settlement.” 

There was nothing to do but to follow Philander, 
who was in possession of the lantern and the rifle. 
When one came to think of it, it did seem unlikely 


FLYING IIILL FARM. 


109 


that the panther — Ben had quite decided that it was a 
panther, or a very large wild-cat — would fasten him- 
self into the logging camp. He followed Philander 
with reluctant steps, however; he wanted to go down 
into the underbrush; he thought it was hard that they 
should lose, perhaps, the greatest chance of a lifetime 
for a real hunt because Philander was sleepy. He 
tried to console himself by planning to go down into 
the underbrush to-morrow without Philander. Simmy 
would not, perhaps, be a great ally in such a desperate 
encounter with a wild beast as he had read of. Simmy, 
he was afraid, might run away; although, in fact, he had 
never known Simmy to run away. If he did, then 
there would be all the more opportunity for him to 
cover himself with glory. He remembered that Hez 
Lowry, who lived at the foot of Tumble Down Hill, had 
told him that he had seen the tracks of wild beasts 
there. Philander had scouted the idea, but there was 
no doubt that Philander was growing very dull and 
slow; he must have been a very different person when 
he drew the teeth of the seven-headed dragon on the 
Goorygilloo Mountains. Now he had an opportunity 
to track a wild beast to his lair, and he wanted to go 
home and go to bed! 

Simmy’s reflections were of a different nature from 
Ben’s. The noise in the logging camp had destroyed 
the last vestige of his courage. When it came to the 
point, Simmy felt that it could never be endurable to 
him to meet either a panther or a tramp, except by day- 
light. It was as well, he thought, to look one’s natural 
limitations in the face. He had an awful conviction 
that if they had stayed at the door of that logging 
camp for another minute, he should have been obliged 
to openly show the white feather, and take to his 
heels. 


110 


FLYING HILL FARM. 


He hurried away from it with a thankful heart, and 
once or twice he looked back apprehensively; there 
was certainly somebody or something in there, and he 
knew, though he had not said so, lest he should lead 
Philander to persevere in getting in, that old Jakey 
Fern, the half crazy herb doctor, was ill at the poor- 
house with an attack of erysipelas. 

His shoe, which had become untied, stuck in the mud 
so firmly that it came off. As he stopped to put it on, 
Simmy looked back once more, furtively, towards the 
logging camp. From the great square smoke-hole at 
the top of the building arose, slowly, a tall shape ! It 
loomed huge and dark against the sky, which had been 
lightened by the rising moon, only partially obscured 
by thin clouds. Simmy thought of the resolves he 
had made to be a good boy; of the time he thrashed 
Jimmy Phillipson, who proved not to have stolen his 
knife, and wondered, queerly enough, whether they 
would give his bicycle and all his fish-hooks to little 
Caleb ; and at the same time he was tugging at his 
shoe, so thickly covered with mud that it would not 
go on, and trying to say his prayers. He suddenly 
shook off the numb terror that held him, and ran, 
shoe in hand. As he passed Ben and Philander he 
called out: 

“ I’m — I’m hurrying along to wash my shoe in the 
brook. I guess maybe you’d better hurry a little, too. 
I — I — guess it’s getting late! 

“If I should tell them they’d go back, and I should 
have to go, too, only I couldn’t, or they’d say it was an- 
other tree, and make fun: Any other fellow can think 
what he likes, but I believe there are Orfie Things, 
ghosts, or whatever-you-eall-ems !” said Simmy to him- 
self. 

He was in the road, very near to the twinkling 


FLYING HILL FARM. 


Ill 


lights of the settlement, when Ben and Philander over- 
took him. 

“Simmy has been frightened again by something,” 
thought Ben, shrewdly, “ but he’ll never tell me what 
it was.” 

But in this latter conclusion Ben was mistaken. 
Simmy was very reticent that night, and in extreme 
haste to get home ; he said he didn’t know but little 
Caleb might want to play checkers ; but the next 
morning, while they were breakfasting at Flying Hill 
Farm, he came to the window, and beckoned to Ben 
with a mysterious air. 

Daylight had brought a stout heart to Simmy, as it 
always did — in fact, there are older and wiser people 
than Simmy who depend upon it for that office — and 
he regarded his conduct of the night before with scorn- 
ful wonder. He had determined to make a full con- 
fession to Ben as an atonement. 

They repaired to the great wood -pile behind the 
shed — a favorite resort when privacy was desirable, 
and where one could whittle to assist one’s flow of lan- 
guage — and Simmy, with some difficulty, but with 
stern resolve keeping down the choking in his throat, 
told Ben what he had seen. 

“You saw it, and you ran awevy?” exclaimed Ben, 
incredulously. “And you didn’t tell !” 

“Sometimes a feller is born so’t he — he runs away 
orfle easy,” said Simmy, with his eyes on the ground, 
and industriously digging a hole in it with his heel — 
“’Specially when it r s dark. Afterwards it seems as if 
it must have been some other feller.” 

“ Phonse wouldn’t have done it,” said Ben, in a tone 
of extreme disgust. He had forgotten everything in 
his disappointment and irritation. But the look on 
Simmy’s face suddenly aroused his sympathy. “It 


112 


FLYING HILL FARM. 


was pretty scarey in those woods,” he said, quickly. 
“ Many a fellow wouldn’t have liked it. I don’t sup- 
pose I should have, myself, if I hadn’t been too much 
excited to think about it. I never saw a fellow that 
was less afraid than you are — sometimes; there was the 
time you thrashed that great hulking Bill Porter for 
bullying his little lame cousin.” 

“ Oh, I can thrash a feller when he needs it as much 
as Bill Porter did; that’s nothing,” said Simmy; but a 
little thrill of satisfaction in his voice showed that his 
self-respect had been somewhat restored by Ben’s re- 
minder. “ It’s queer, Ben, but I can’t seem to get over 
being just like a small shaver about the dark. If — ” 

“As much as ten feet high ?” said Ben, eagerly, re- 
turning to the subject of the mysterious appearance, 
which was much more interesting than poor Simmy’s 
infirmity. “You don’t really suppose, now, that it was 
as tall as that ? Things will look taller, you know, when 
when a fellow’s afraid. What did it look like ?” 

“ Well, it was big and stout, and had arms. It was 
orfle tall; anyway, I should think it looked like some 
animal — an elephant, or maybe a very big bear, only 
they wouldn’t stand up on their hind -legs like that. 
We’ll go and see, won’t we ?” Simmy spoke with res- 
olution, although with some effort. 

11 HTF? I should think so ! And we needn’t say any- 
thing about it to Philander. He was mean about the 
rifle. Father didn’t say that he was to keep it all the 
time. I asked him, and he said he didn’t.” 

“ I hope Philander won’t be disappointed,” said Sim- 
my, as they went out at the gate, Ben with the rifle 
over his shoulder. It was the first sign of hesitation 
that he had given. 

“ Oh, if he really cared, I wouldn’t go without telling 
him,” said Ben. “Perhaps it would be mean. He’s 


FLYING HILL FARM. 


113 


down in the south meadow; we’ll call to him as we 
go by.” 

“ We don’t want to do anything mean,” said Simmy, 
earnestly. “ And — and it’s such an orfly big thing, 
three might be better’ll two.” 

Ben looked at him keenly. 

“Now, Simmy, if you’re afraid you’d better back 
out now. If you back out after we get there — ” 

“ Ben, if I do I hope he’ll eat me ; so there, now!” 

They stopped at the fence and called out to Phi- 
lander : 

“ We’re going down to the logging camp. We know 
It's round there. Don’t you want to come?” 

Philander leaned on his hoe, and shook his head vig- 
orously. 

“ I’ll be right along here when you fetch home the 
skin,” he said, facetiously. “Mebbe you’ll make up 
j^our minds to fetch home the carkiss, and will want 
some help carryin’ it.” 

Ben walked on with an air of dignity, and Simmy 
followed. 

“ Look out that that old rifle don’t kick. That’s the 
most dangerous cretur you’ll meet, I’ll warrant,” Phi- 
lander called after them. 

“I declare if them wa’n’t queer kind of tracks that 
we see down there in the Roarin’ Brook woods last 
night,” he remarked to old Simon Gillam, Byerly’s one 
representative of the colored race who was helping him 
with the hoeing. “ But things do look kind of queer 
by lamplight.” 

“Dey sutt’nly has an onnatchal look,” said old Si- 
mon. “I calc’late mebbe they wa’n’t nothin’ but ox 
tracks after all. You see, it don’t stand to reason that 
there could be a bear or a wild cretur of any kind in 
them woods.” 

8 


114 


FLYING HILL FARM. 


And Philander ceased to look doubtfully, and with 
some evident longing, after the boys, and applied him- 
self vigorously to his hoeing. 

Simmy was feeling quite strongly by this time that 
the hunting-party was decidedly too small, and that 
there ought to be a man or two in it. He said to him- 
self that it was foolhardy for two boys like Ben and 
him to venture alone into the very lair of such a huge, 
mysterious creature as he had seen. In his determina- 
tion to get the better of his cowardice he had lost 
sight of the real danger. Ben would refuse to be 
shown that view of the matter. It was not that Ben 
was lacking in sense, but because, as Simmy shrewdly 
suspected, he held a private opinion that Simmy had 
seen only another tree — it would be quite possible to 
be deceived by one that rose tall above the logging 
camp — or a cloud or a shadow. He felt that it was al- 
most impossible to bring himself to say anything to 
Ben about the danger. Ben would think only that 
his cowardice was coming to the front again. 

Ben was a good shot with the rifle, that was one 
comfort. He (Simmy) would be the one to be torn to 
pieces, and, in his desperate mood, Simmy said that it 
would not much matter. 

However, as they turned into the path which led to 
the logging camp he did muster sufficient courage to 
say to Ben: 

“If people knew what there was down in these 
woods there’d be as many as twenty or thirty men 
hunting here this morning.” * 

“ Then we’ve got the start of ’em,” said Ben, cheer- 
fully. 

“ If — if anything should happen to me, I — I — want 
you to have my new patent fish-pole,” he said. 

But Ben was so far ahead that he did not hear, 


FLYING IIILL FARM. 


115 


•and Simmy decided that he would not repeat the 
remark. 

He tried to derive a little consolation from the re- 
flection that Philander must have felt sure that there 
was no danger, or he would have objected to their go- 
ing. Perhaps Ben with the rifle was a match for any- 
thing. And he — at least he would not run ! Simmy 
thrust his hands deep into his trousers-pockets, pursed 
his lips for a whistle, and trudged sturdily on after 
Ben, already in sight of the logging camp. 

But Simmy was mistaken in thinking that Philan- 
der felt no uneasiness about the boys’ expedition. He 
threw down his hoe suddenly. 

“ I expect it’s foolishness, but I can’t help feelin’ on- 
easy about them youngsters. You see, I left the rifle 
onloaded out in the tool-house when I went to bed last 
night ; I always calc’late to, bein’ there’s boys ’round ; 
and I found out that that Ben of ourn had been and 
loaded it again the very last thing before he went to 
bed, and I kind of suspected by that that he meant 
to go down in them woods bright and early. I run of 
an idee that it’s always resky for boys to have a gun. 
The squire he ain’t cautious enough ; he says a gun is a 
lib’ral edication for a boy ; but, thinks I, his edication 
ain’t nigh so likely to be cut short if the gun ain’t 
loaded, so I jest onloads it again, onbeknownst to Ben. 
And now I can’t help a-thinkin’ where’d them inner- 
cents be if they should come acrost a wild cretur 
down in them woods, with nothin’ but an empty rifle ; 
so if them beans ain’t never hoed I’m obleeged to fol- 
ler ’em.” ^And off went Philander as fast as his long 
legs would carry him in pursuit of the boys. 


116 


FLYING HILL FARM. 


CHAPTER XI. 

In the mean time two other members of the family 
at Flying Hill Farm were planning a trip to the 
Roaring Brook settlement. 

Lucius Perry had brought the horse, and exhibited 
him in the yard, and after a great deal of talking, and 
a delay which seemed interminable to Cherry, a bar- 
gain was concluded, and Lucius Perry went his way 
with a roll of bills in his pocket. 

“There, the horse is yours, Cherry, and you can 
make up to your friend for her loss as soon as you 
please,” said Uncle David, kindly. And then he 
frowned a little, as if he were afraid he had been too 
kind, and added : “ I don’t know whether you can re- 
alize that it is a misfortune to have been obliged to 
spend all the money you had, but I hope it will teach 
you to behave as a young girl should, and not like a 
boy. And mind, I don’t want you to go down to that 
Roaring Brook settlement. Philander can take the 
horse down.” 

“Oh, Uncle David, please let me take it — Phonse 
and me !” cried Cherry, eagerly. “ Dilly is so — so 
queer and proud. She would not understand. She 
might be angry.” 

Uncle David smiled somewhat scornfully, as if he 
did not consider Dilly Gage’s anger a matter of much 
moment. But he looked at Cherry’s eager face, and 
said, after a moment’s hesitation : 

“Well, go this time, but be sure that Phonse goes 
with you ; and if there’s any more gadding about alone 


FLYING HILL FARM. 


117 


after dark, or any more trouble of any kind, I’ll send 
you away to school — you and Rhoda too.” 

“Uncle David, that wouldn’t be fair, for it’s never 
Rhoda — never ; it’s always I,” said Cherry. “And I 
wish you wouldn’t say — say those things, because it 
makes Rhoda think I’m awfully to blame.” 

“ The innocent often have to suffer with the guilty 
in this world,” said Uncle David. “It ought to be a 
reason the more for you to try to behave better. I 
suppose it is hard that my quiet little Rhoda should 
be called a tomboy.” 

Rhoda had come out, and stood beside him in the 
door- way, and he rested his hand lightly on her head. 

“ Everybody will say ‘ those girls,’ ” said Rhoda, with 
a deep sigh. “ And, oh, papa, you will tell Cherry that 
she’s not to ride the pony barebacked, won’t you? 
It’s such a dreadful habit! It’s really not nice; it’s 
quite untidy.” 

“I never did but — but twice, when I was in a great 
hurry. I mean not latety,” said Cherry, growing very 
red in the face. 

“ Oh, every one knows that you always used to, and 
like a boy, too ! I remember the day when Dr. Wallace 
and all their city visitors saw' you boy-fashion !” 

Rhoda’s tone expressed severest reprobation, and 
Cherry stood guiltily silent, with tears of mortification 
in her eyes. Rhoda might have refrained from bring- 
ing up her youthful errors before Uncle David just 
now, she thought. 

“ Oh, come along, Cherry,” said Phonse. “ She sets 
my teeth on edge, her hair is so smooth.” 

Rhoda v r as really very pretty to look at, with her 
sleek, satiny head, her regular, doll-like little features, 
pink cheeks, and soft brown eyes; but Phonse w r as 
in one of his irritable moods this morning ; besides, 


118 


FLYING IIILL FARM. 


he always declared that Rhoda’s sand-papered look 
“offended his artistic tastes.” 

Once on the black pony (saddled in proper fashion), 
with Phonse beside her, mounted on the new purchase, 
which was soon to draw Dilly Gage’s tin-wagon, Cher- 
ry’s naturally joyous spirits asserted themselves again, 
especially as the horse, which wa*s not accustomed to a 
rider, performed some very queer antics, occasionally 
planting his fore-feet stubbornly, and refusing to move 
until he had looked over each shoulder at Phonse, con- 
stantly meandering from one side of the road to the 
other, and occasionally relieving the monotony of his 
performance by turning round and round several times. 
And all these erratic movements were carried on mild- 
ly and gently, although persistently. 

“I think he is a race-horse, or a circus horse, or some- 
thing queer,” said Cherry, between her paroxysms of 
laughter. “ Oh, don’t get down, Phonse, you do look 
so funny 1” 

But Phonse looked as if he thought that an addi- 
tional reason for dismounting ; he was too sensitive to 
like being laughed at even by Cherry ; and, in fact, to 
look funny is generally to afford more pleasure to spec- 
tators than to one’s self. 

“Please don’t get down just here, Phonse !” insisted 
Cherry. “ This is just where Dilly Gage and I saw the 
— the great tall thing. And it’s always so dark and 
lonesome here, I want to ride fast.” 

“You may ride just as fast as you can make the 
pony go, but I shall never mount that beast again !” 
said Phonse, with dignity. 

“You don’t suppose he will behave badly in the tin- 
wagon, do you, Phonse ?” asked Cherry, anxiously. 

“ I should think Dilly Gage and her wagon might 
settle him down,” said Phonse. “Oh, he doesn’t like 


FLYING HILL FARM. 


119 


to be ridden, that’s all. You needn’t worry ; he’s 
too good for a tin-peddler’s — What’s that? Whoa! 
whoa !” 

The report of a rifle had rung out sharply, so near 
them that the pony had started and reared violently. 

“ I don’t know what it means,” said Phonse. “ It’s 
too early in the season to shoot any birds that there 
are in the woods.” 

“ Boys will fire guns at any time of year,” said Cher- 
ry, with an emphasis which left no doubt as to her 
opinion of boys who fired guns. But she had by this 
time calmed the pony, who was far too fat and lazy 
to permit himself any unnecessary agitation.” Hurry 
a little, won’t you, Phonse, so we can get out of the 
way before it comes again. You don’t suppose Ben 
and Simmy are there, and firing at — at the ghost, do 
you, Phonse ?” 

“I think they had too much of it last night to go 
again so soon. I forgot to look for those queer tracks 
they saw; the road is all cut up with wheels, anyway. 
I don’t see how they could have seen them. Philander 
must have been telling stories, and it was pretty dark, 
you know. I don’t think they saw them ‘out’n a book,’ 
as Philander says.” 

The new horse permitted himself to be led by the 
bridle with the greatest docility, and showed not the 
least objection to the noise of the gun. 

“I think we’d better hitch the horses here,” said 
Cherry, alighting just before they reached the house, 
and where a little clump of trees hid the horses from 
sight. “And I want to see Dilly first, alone, and tell 
her about the horse before she sees him. She’s crosser 
sometimes than others. I think I’m getting to know a 
little how to take her.” 

“I really believe you’re afraid of her,” said Phonse. 


120 


FLYING HILL FARM. 


“ But you’re no more so than I am,” he added, can- 
didly. 

Phonse hitched the horses to a tree, and after Cherry 
had gone on towards the house he stood still — as long 
as it is in the nature of a boy to do so. As every one 
knows, that is not very long, and he soon wandered 
down a little path, half lost in stones and weeds, which 
ran along the side of the house towards the brook. He 
thought he should like to see how the brook looked 
from the back of the house, which was perched upon a 
bank at its very edge, and was always expected to sail 
away in the spring freshets. He said to himself that he 
should have plenty of time on his hands before Cherry 
got Hilly Gage smoothed the right way; even if Hilly 
were inclined to be gracious, there would have to be 
just about so much talk — girls always had to have it. 

The brook was very swift just here; it w T as strange, 
Phonse thought, that the pool just below should be so 
still. He scrambled up over the pile of loose stones, 
which seemed to have been thrown up as a protection 
to the house, that he might have a better view of the 
pool, with its fringe of alders. Phonse never failed to 
have an eye for a pretty bit of scenery. The stones 
were loose, and it was difficult to find a secure foothold; 
he caught at a corner of the house, and then at the 
fastening of a blind for support. How pretty it was ! 
The brook, tumbling over some great stones, tossed its 
spray into the air like a small Niagara, and in this close 
proximity its roar was almost deafening. 

“ I don’t wonder that the old tin-peddler is deaf, and I 
should think Hilly would be,” said Phonse to himself. 
“I’m glad the railroad company isn’t responsible for 
that!” As Phonse turned he looked at the window, 
which was just behind him. The blinds were closed, but 
one could see that the shade was drawn, for a slat was 


FLYING HILL FARM. 


121 


broken in the blind; and the shade was not so closely 
drawn but that there was a chink through which could 
be seen a bed, open, and looking as if some one had just 
arisen from it. Beside it stood a small table, with med- 
icine bottles and a glass and spoon. 

“ That must be the old man’s room. There is only 
one other sleeping-room, evidently, and that’s in the 
upper story.” 

And then the full significance of the empty bed 
flashed upon Phonse’s mind. 

“ Where can he be ?” He said it aloud in his excite- 
ment. 

He looked into the window again, and then drew 
back in sudden shame. 

“ I won’t do such a contemptible thing as to look 
into people’s windows — even into Preserved Gage’s 
— even to find out whether he is a humbug. I didn’t 
mean to; it just happened as I turned round. I nev- 
er thought of doing such a thing, though I did want 
awfully to find out.” Phonse rushed down over the 
stones, almost into the brook, in too great excitement 
to make his slow way over the stones, around the cor- 
ner of the house. Below the pile of stones his head 
was on a level with the cellar window, and again, 
quite unintentionally, Phonse, as he ran by, looked 
through the window. A tall, stooping figure, with a 
grizzly head, clothed in a long night-gown, stood by a 
high shelf eating baked beans with a knife, out of an 
earthen bean-pot! It was the swiftest of glances, but 
a shaft of sunlight threw the figure into strong relief 
on the dusky background of the cellar. 

<£ Cherry ! Oh, Cherry, come here !” he called, softly, 
as, turning around the corner of the house, he saw 
Cherry sauntering along towards the horses, with an 
expression of disappointment on her face. “No, no! 


122 


FLYING HILL FAKM. 


don't come here ! I don’t mean it. We won’t spy on 
people, if they are humbugs !” Phonse had as keen a 
sense of honor, in some directions, as if he were inca- 
pable of allowing some one else to do his arithmetical 
problems. 

“Dilly isn’t at home. I’m so disappointed,” said 
Cherry. (Phonse’s call had been too low for her to 
hear, for he had forgotten that Preserved Gage was 
very deaf, and felt the need of caution about so impor- 
tant a discovery.) “I knocked and knocked, and no 
one came, and then I walked down towards the bridge 
a little way and found a small tow-headed boy at play, 
and he said Dilly had hired Jed Trefry’s old horse and 
gone tin -peddling. I wish we had come earlier. I 
might have known Dilly would find some way to do 
her work, she’s so — so determined.” 

“ You seem to think, after all, that that girl is great 
things. Just wait till 1 tell you what I’ve just seen,” 
said Phonse. 

And Phonse poured into Cherry’s startled ears a 
graphic description of the sights he had witnessed 
through the Gages’ windows. 

“ You’re sure it was he ? Of course it was if his bed 
was empty. And I was just beginning to think he had 
been so badly wronged! I couldn’t keep it out of my 
mind. And you, Phonse, you felt worse than I did,” 
cried Cherry, in great excitement. 

“A fellow never frets like a girl about such things,” 
said Phonse, gruffly, trying to hide the tremor in his 
voice. 

“Although you wouldn’t tell about Chissy Fen- 
wick,” pursued Cherry, “I think you ought to have 
told, Phonse. I think you ought to, now, because Pre- 
served Gage probably did mean to tell the truth about 
that.” 



A TALL, STOOPING FIGURE, WITH A GRIZZLY HEAD, CLOTHED IN A LONG 

NIGHT-GOWN. 5> 
































FLYING HILL FARM. 


123 


“If I Had, the jury might have believed in him. It 
happened just right,” said Phonse. 

Cherry shook her head decidedly. “You never in 
all the world can make a right happening by doing 
wrong,” she said. 

“Now go to being preachy, just as a fellow begins 
to take a little comfort in finding out that he hasn’t 
helped to wrong people, and keep them horribly poor. 
It’s just like you,” said Phonse. “I suppose it makes 
you feel badly to find out what a horrid cheat that girl 
is. I was always pretty sure of it. I was afraid that 
poor old horse didn’t have enough to eat, and that was 
what made her give out so, and I felt as if I were to 
blame for it. A fellow doesn’t like to feel that way, if 
he isn’t — isn’t soft, like a girl. But now you see that 
old sneak didn’t get hurt at all. He’s just been taking 
life easily, and scooting round nights frightening peo- 
ple. I dare say he’s got a lot of money — old stockings 
full of gold-pieces, most likely, or maybe a bed stuffed 
with bank-notes instead of feathers, like the man Phi- 
lander knew. And that girl goes tin-peddling just to 
pretend that they’ve been dreadfully injured, and make 
people pity them.” 

“I can’t make it seem true of Hilly, Phonse,” said 
Cherry, earnestly. “ Of course she isn’t — isn’t nice in 
lots of ways ; she hasn’t any chance to be. Rhoda 
might make faces if she had been brought up down 
here in the Roaring Brook settlement.” 

“ Phew! Well, if you haven’t an imagination, Cher- 
ry Eastman! Rhoda! A fellow might really get to like 
her if he thought she would have. It isn’t an attract- 
ive habit, generally speaking, I’ll admit, but it softens 
a fellow’s heart towards Rhoda just to imagine her do- 
ing anything that isn’t prim.” 

“But Hilly does seem honest,” continued Cherry, 


124 


FLYING HILL FARM. 


whose mind was full of more interesting matters than 
Rhoda’s characteristics. “ I always think that honesty 
is one of the things that show. You find out whether 
a person is honest sooner than anything else. There’s 
ever so much difference among the girls at school. 
They all mean to be, I suppose, but there are some 
that you’re always sure of. You know that the least 
little thing they say is absolutely true, and that they 
would never take a bit of unfair advantage for no 
matter how much gain to themselves. It’s very com- 
fortable,” Cherry sighed. “ I wish that you and I — ” 

And then she stopped suddenly, Phonse was frown- 
ing so gloomily; and she had resolved never to refer 
again to those unhappy arithmetic lessons. “In spite 
of everything,” she went on, hurriedly, “ Dilly Gage al- 
ways makes me feel as if she were like that, true and 
dependable .” 

“ Oh, anybody could pull wool over your eyes,” said 
Phonse. “ There are lots of fellows that are square 
just as long as it’s easy enough, but when it comes 
hard, why, then it’s another thing. There was Tommy 
Taylor, I had trusted him for years” Phonse’s tone, 
was intensely gloomy. “ I could lend him my micro- 
scope and my art journal. You could swap knives 
with him and not get cheated, and you could tell him 
any common secret, but I told him where I’d found a 
musk-rat’s nest, and that was too much for him. He 
went and killed every one of ’em — little fellows not so 
long as my hand, bright - eyed and so pretty ! Ben 
thrashed him; it was that time that I was lame. I’ve 
got over feeling as if I could trust people. Dilly Gage 
might not cheat in weighing rags, like her father; but 
when it came to helping her father to get a great lot of 
money out of the railroad — well, I rather guess that was 
like the musk-rat’s nest that floored Tommy Taylor.” 


FLYING IIILL FARM. 


125 


Plionse delivered himself of his cynical opinions with 
such an air of wisdom that Cherry was crushed if not 
convinced. 

“ What shall we do about it, Phonse ? Have we got 
to tell? It doesn’t make any difference that he is pre- 
tending, since he lost the case, anyway,” she said. 

“I rather think Uncle David would feel better to 
know that it was so. And I wish you would say they 
are pretending, and not throw it all onto old Preserved. 
I shouldn’t wonder a bit if that girl put him up to it.” 

“ Uncle David doesn’t seem to care at all,” said 
Cherry, meditatively. 

“ I think you ought to know by this time that only 
girls go howling around about how they feel. It’s 
likely that Uncle David would let you know!” 

“ I can always tell,” said Cherry, nodding her head 
wisely. “ When things have gone very wrong he nev- 
er eats any dessert, and every day lately he has had 
two helps of pudding ; and he hasn’t called me Charity, 
not even when I’ve been in scrapes.” 

“ I really believe you want to keep that girl from 
being found out,” cried Phonse, in a tone of great in- 
dignation. “ If you call that being square — ” 

“No, I don’t,” said Cherry; it’s only that I can’t be- 
lieve Dilly is to blame — that she knows. I suppose I’m 
silly.” 

“ Of course you are,” said Phonse, with his accus- 
tomed candor. 

“ It’s so horrid to find people out, and tell of them — 
by accident, like this.” 

“Would it have been better if we had tried to find 
them out ? Now, you know you are talking nonsense, 
Cherry. What about the doctor, who is being cheated 
out of his time and his medicine? Of course it’s our 
duty to expose fraud wherever we find it. If we didn’t, 


126 


FLYING IIILL FARM. 


we should be what they call accessaries.” (Phonse had 
been acquiring legal knowledge, stimulated by his ex- 
perience in court, and was fond of using it to make an 
impression upon the girls. It was unsatisfactory to 
try to impress Ben and Simmy Backup in that way, 
as their frankness of manner permitted them to be 
critical and even openly derisive.) “ I should think it 
would make some difference to you that half the peo- 
ple in the county think those Gages were wronged, 
and that we are to blame,” continued Phonse, as Cher- 
ry still looked doubtful. 

“I suppose we must tell Uncle David, of course,” 
said Cherry; “ but I am trying to think whether it 
could be possible that Dilly has been deceived.” 

“ Of course she hasn’t. I don’t see how you can im- 
agine such a thing. There is no doubt whatever that 
she was an accessary before the fact.” 

This miss-sounding legal phrase seemed to Cherry to 
make Dilly ’s wickedness more dreadful. It seemed al- 
most as if one might be executed for doing anything 
that sounded like that. But she comforted herself a 
little by thinking of what Philander had said when she 
told him of some of the mysterious expressions she had 
heard in court. 

“ Them lawyers they have to talk consid’able hi- 
falutin,” said he, “ because if they talked so common 
folks could understand ’em, why, then, common folks 
would find out that what they said wa’n’t of much ac- 
count. If you hain’t got but dreadful little to say, 
there ain’t nothin’ like usin’ big words to say it in. 
Puts me in mind of the cap’n’s wife that we picked up 
when the Victory was shipwrecked ; she was always 
boastin’ of the furrin languages she knew, and* talkin’ 
so much like a dictionary that you couldn’t understand 
hardly a word she said. One day I couldn’t seem to 


FLYING HILL FARM. 


127 


stand it no longer, and I up and says to her, ‘ It’s a ter- 
rible pity you’re so lackin’ that you can’t make folks 
understand you without takin’ the trouble to use such 
big words. But, then, some is gifted and some ain’t,’ 
says I. ‘Why, I knew a man once of such a powerful 
intelleck that he could express hisself in words of one 
syllable !’ She drew in her horns, I can tell you.” 

It was consoling to recall Philander’s opinion that 
legal phrases and large words in general seldom meant 
much ; nevertheless, something still remained of the 
shock which it had caused her to hear that Dilly was 
an “ accessary before the fact.” 

“I think she is probably worse than that,” said 
Phonse, who had been pondering deeply — “ an accom- 
plice !” He said it with awful emphasis, but it did not 
strike Cherry so forcibly as his first phrase had done ; 
it was more familiar, and less associated with courts. 

“Don’t you think her father may have made her 
help him, Phonse?” said Cherry, who was meditatively 
flicking flies off the pony with her riding-whip. 

Phonse’s answer, which Cherry well knew would be 
unsatisfactory, was interrupted by the noise of wheels, 
mingled with the clattering of tin-ware on the rickety 
little bridge that crossed Roaring Brook. 

“ It’s Dilly !” cried Cherry. “ What can have sent 
her home at this time of day? What a queer old 
lame horse she has! Oh, Phonse, I dread to see her 
now. I think I ought to give her the horse just the 
same ; what happened to old Jane was really my fault.” 

“ No, it wasn’t, either,” said Phonse, stoutly. “ Now, 
would you ever have thought of coming down here if 
they hadn’t got up their plot to cheat? Of course you 
wouldn’t.” 

“ Oh, what shall we say to her ?” cried Cherry, des- 
perately. 


128 


FLYING IIILL FAEM. 


CHAPTER XII. 

Chekey felt a strong impulse to run away from 
Dilly Gage, but she restrained it, not only because she 
felt it to be ignoble, but because it was quite evident 
that Phonse meant to stand his ground, and she could 
by no means endure the scorn which he would heap 
upon her if she should desert him. Moreover, she had 
not quite decided what to do about the horse ; she had 
not found Phonsels argument altogether convincing. 
And that little doubt whether Hilly had shared in her 
father’s deception — it was more like an unreasoning 
hope which she could not forego — also served to hold 
her fast, while the lame old horse and the jingling 
wagon came slowly along over the muddy road. 

As for Phonse, all his dread of Hilly Gage had van- 
ished in the light of his discovery. She might make 
faces now without disturbing him in the least. It was 
a greater relief than he would have acknowledged to 
be free from the feeling that he might have helped to 
keep them from their rights. He did not need Cherry 
to tell him that he had not been “ square” — that ex- 
pressive boy’s word for honest — in withholding the fact 
that Chissy Fenwick had said what he was supposed 
to have said ; his conscience still refused to be satisfied 
on that score ; but it was consoling to know that the 
Gages’ poverty was not owing to that. Then, too, 
Phonse had the sort of nature — not very noble, I am 
afraid, but, alas! not at all uncommon — that likes to 
blame some one for its sufferings. There was a cer- 
tain satisfaction in feeling that he had a right to be 


FLYING HILL FARM. 


129 


thoroughly angry with Dilly Gage. When Cherry 
said, “ I’m afraid she’ll know by the way we act that 
we’ve found out something,” he answered, with deci- 
sion: “I mean she shall. Perhaps you’re going to in- 
quire after her father’s health, and say you’re sorry ; 
but I’m not a girl, and I don’t pretend, and I haven’t 
forgotten what I’ve been through, all on account of 
their humbugging.” 

Perhaps it was not to be expected that Phonse 
should feel any disposition to spare Dilly. Cherry, 
who had understood and sympathized with him more 
than any one else, could scarcely find it in her heart 
to blame him, although she did wish that he wouldn’t 
feel so sure that Dilly was an “ accomplice ” or an 
“accessary.” And yet it did seem probable that he 
was right about that. 

“Uncle David has always thought that Preserved 
Gage was making believe, and yet he let me buy the 
horse ; he helped me to buy him,” she said, suddenly 
brightening. 

“Oh, who cares about your old horse !” said Phonse, 
impatiently. “Give her the horse if you want to. All I 
want is to let her understand that I know what tricks 
she’s up to.” 

Dilly had by this time driven up into her own door- 
yard with as great an air of importance as the infirmi- 
ties of her steed would permit, and without bestow- 
ing a glance upon Cherry and Phonse, although it was 
quite impossible that she should not have known that 
they were there. She backed her equipage into the 
tumble-down little shed, and as, in the place where she 
sat upon her wagon, Phonse and Cherry were directly 
in front of her, she ostentatiously shut her eyes. 

Phonse laughed contemptuously — a little laugh, but 
intended to reach Dilly’s ears. 

9 


130 


FLYING IIILL FARM. 


“ Don’t, Phonse,” said Cherry, softly. “ That isn’t 
half so bad as making faces. I think Dilly improves.” 

This was not the way to keep Phonse from laugh- 
ing. He laughed with genuine mirth now. Cherry 
was really funny, he thought, in her determination to 
make something of that girl. She could trace progress 
in the fact that she shut her eyes tightly at people of 
whom she didn’t approve, instead of making faces at 
them. Cherry really seemed to have a sort of fancy 
that she could civilize that girl, and she didn’t seem 
to feel as shocked as she ought to feel at the dread- 
ful fraud she had been practising. It began to look 
as if Cherry had not a proper sense of “ squareness.” 
Phonse wondered vaguely if she had not been, after 
all, as much to blame about the arithmetic lessons 
as he. Certainly she had begun it. Perhaps he had giv- 
en her more than her due that day in court. When a 
fellow got into such a lofty mood as that he was apt 
to overdo the matter of generosity. But then he liked 
Cherry; she wasn’t so silly as most girls, and didn’t 
think she knew everything, and she looked so frank 
and honest. Perhaps, however, that was because of 
her turn-up nose. 

“ I wish you’d go away, and not stand there cacklin’ 
like a goose,” called Dilly from the wagon. She was 
finding it a very unsatisfactory revenge to shut one’s 
eyes at people, and was gradually giving way to her 
impulse to return to more warlike methods. “ I don’t 
see what you’re hangin’ round down here for, anyhow. 
Spyin’ round, I expect. It’s lucky you’ve come horse- 
back, for I couldn’t carry you home. I hired this poor 
old cretur of Jed Trefry, and give him seventy-five 
cents; he wouldn’t let me have him without I paid in 
advance. I calculated I could make it pay, because I 
had a lot of rags to carry to the mills, and rags has 



















FLYING HILL FARM. 


131 


riz, and I’ve got consid’able many customers down the 
mills way, too, and I’d promised old Mis’ Risley I’d 
fetch her a dredgin’ -box, solum true. This old horse 
begun to grow lame before I’d got to the corner, but 
I kept on thinkin’ mebbe he’d get limbered out, and it 
didn’t ’pear to hurt him much. And then I found out 
one of his shoes was ’most off. I kept a-hammerin’ 
away at it with a stone, but ’twa’n’t no use. Then come 
to find out he hadn’t any shoe at all on his nigh hind- 
foot. Jed Trefry’s a cheat, and I ain’t sharp enough. 
He’s got to get a piece of my mind, though. Some 
boys hollered out, ‘ Go it, Barebones !’ and some other 
sarse, but I never took a mite of notice. I just pre- 
tended I didn’t hear ; that’s the best way.” 

Cherry looked up quickly, with pleasure shining in 
her eyes. When she had given that advice to Hilly 
she had bj 7 " no means expected that it would be taken. 

“ I never done it because you told me to,” said Hilly, 
with quick recollection. “I’ve found out that you’ve 
got to put up with a sight if you’re goin’ to do any 
business, that’s all. What are you doin’ down here, 
anyw r ay? I wisht you’d just go home.” 

Hilly was apt to forget her anger in her naturally 
strong desire for sympathy whenever she met Cherry, 
but it flamed out at intervals. 

“Hilly, I — I — felt so badly about old Jane, and 
Uncle Havid and I — he helped me — we bought this 
horse for you. He’s good and strong.” 

Hilly had advanced as far as her own door-stone 
during her flow of words, and she stood there now 
staring at Cherry and the horse, transfixed with as- 
tonishment. 

“ I ain’t goin’ to take any horse from Afm,” she said, 
her face darkening slowly. u We don’t want any giv- 
in’s from him, father ’n’ I don’t, nor anything but just 


132 


FLYING HILL FARM. 


our rights that he’s cheated us out of. If ’twas you 
alone that give it to me, Cherry Eastman — but then 
you wouldn’t have no call to. I needn’t have carried 
you home that night without I’d been a mind to. I 
don’t know what you was down here for. If it was to 
spy round — and there is folks that comes here for that, 
and I know it — you couldn’t see any more than poor 
father layin’ there sufferin’.” 

“Lying there suffering!” echoed Phonse, in shrill 
contempt. “ He is down cellar eating baked beans. I 
wasn’t spying round, but I saw him.” 

“ It’s no such thing !” cried Hilly, her face in a flame. 
“You never saw such a sight, for he can’t move nor 
stir. Somebody’s told you that — there’s folks that says 
things — and you darst to come here and say it to my 
face ! You come in here, you come right straight in 
here, both of you, and see him.” 

Phonse unhesitatingly followed Hilly’s imperious 
beckoning, but Cherry drew back until Hilly seized 
her by the arm. 

“You come, too,” she said, almost roughly, and yet 
with an accent of entreaty. “I can’t put up with it to 
have you thinkin’ such things, and I ain’t goin’ to.” 

There was such a ring of truth in Hilly’s voice that 
Cherry’s faith in her grew almost to a certainty, and 
Phonse looked at her in perplexity. 

“ I saw him, you know,” he murmured, but it was 
under his breath, and Hilly’s attention was so centred 
upon Cherry that she did not hear. They stood just 
inside the door of the living-room, a bare and meagre 
little place, but shiningly clean, and with a pathetic at- 
tempt at adornment in the skimpy, much-washed bit of 
muslin which did duty as a curtain at the one window, 
in a gaudy print in a frame of pine cones, and a motto, 
“ Home sweet home,” done in pink worsted on perfo- 


FLYING 1IILL FARM. 


133 


rated card-board, for which Dilly, after many midnight 
vigils of desire and doubt, had given Cally Bumpus a tin 
teapot, a small broom, and a feather-duster. “ Seems as 
if ’twould kind of chipper me up to have a motto like 
folks,” she had said, apologetically, to old Mrs. Fickett, 
who had thought her extravagant. “ Folks think I 
hadn’t ought to want anything fashionable, but I guess 
I’ve got feelin’s. And if rags keep on as brisk as they 
be now, I’m goin’ to have a sash, and a feather that 
ain’t Cally Bumpus’s.” 

But Dilly had no pride in her possessions to-day. 
She did not even observe whether her visitors looked 
at the motto. Her whole soul seemed absorbed in a 
burning sense of wrong. 

“ Oh, I don’t want to see him. I don’t want to, Dil- 
ly,” Cherry insisted, drawing back from the threshold 
of the bedroom door. 

But Dilly’s grasp upon her arm w T as firm. “Then 
you hadn’t ought to let him tell such orfle stories,” said 
Dilly, indicating Phonse by a fierce gesture. “’Tain’t 
any more ’n might be expected from him, but I would- 
n’t have thought you’d act just as if you b’lieved it! 
You’ve got to see him, anyhow, and if he ain’t very po- 
lite to you, why, ’tain’t any more ’n you ought to expect. 
Roarin’ Brook folks is plain folks, that speaks their 
minds, and it ain’t apt to make any folks mealy-mouth- 
ed to be sot on. He don’t like to have folks fetched 
into his room, neither, but I’m bound that folks that 
b’lieves such lies shall see him.” 

She flung open the bedroom door. “Father, I’ve 
brought — ” 

She stopped short at sight of the empty bed, and 
turned a pale and startled face towards Cherry. 

“He couldn’t get up! ’Lando Bumpus had to come 
and lift him this morning. Somebody must have took 


134 


FLYING HILL FARM. 


liim away. Father! father!” she cried, in a kind of be- 
wildered despair, of which it was impossible to doubt 
the reality. 

“ He’s down cellar. I saw him, you know,” said 
Phonse, with unpitying calmness. 

At that moment a door opened cautiously for the 
space of an inch or two ; the old man’s grizzly head 
was visible for an instant above the cellar stairs, and 
then the door closed with a jerk. 

“ I never knew it ! I never knew it !” cried Dilly. 
“You may b’lieve it or not, just as you’re a mind to. 
I knew folks said so. They said he played ghost and 
frightened folks. One time I thought I saw him, over 
acrost the bridge, on the edge of the woods. I’d got 
kind of belated, ’twas ’most dark, and I was hurryin’ 
because ’twas the time Cally Bumpus had gone visitin’ 
to her sister’s, and there wa’n’t nobody to give him his 
medicine. ’Twas a man all wrapped up in a sheet — 
’peared to be — and his head looked like father’s. But 
when I come home there he was abed, and the sheets 
didn’t look as if they’d been meddled with. Beats all 
how quick he must have come, if ’twas him. And he 
must have come acrost the brook, on the steppin’-stones, 
if ’twas him. I can’t b’lieve ’twas, now. I wisht I’d 
chased him and found out ; that’s why I did that 
night you and I see something. I’ve watched and 
watched, but I be a sound sleeper nights. Seems as if 
I couldn’t keep awake, I get so tired, and the doctor 
said there wa’n’t no need to give him his medicine 
nights. Oh, land sakes! he’s my father! Sometimes 
he’s been good to me, too. I couldn’t b’lieve it, nor I 
can’t. He’s took on so because I had to go round with 
the wagon, and he didn’t know what was goin’ to be- 
come of us. I don’t see how he could have made 
b’lieve and me not know it. He wa’n’t hurt at all, do 










FLYING HILL FARM. 


135 


you s’pose ? And he ain’t blind ? My head’s kind of 
whirlin’ round. I wisht you’d go home ; I wisht you 
would !” 

“ We’re going now, right away. We don’t want to 
trouble you. I wish you’d believe it, Dilly. Dilly, I’m 
so sorry for you ! I’m sure you didn’t know. I didn’t 
feel all the time as if you could make believe. I al- 
ways believed in you. You’ll keep the horse from 
me, won’t you ?” 

But Billy made no response. She went to the cellar 
door and stood with her back against it, as if on guard. 

“He’s my father,” she said; as if that were a suffi- 
cient answer to everything that could be said. And 
Cherry felt that the kindest thing which she and 
Phonse could do for Dilly was to go away. 

In fact, Phonse was already out of the house. He 
didn’t believe in Dilly, he said to himself, but to see 
anybody pretend to feel so badly as that was enough 
to make a fellow miserable. He had a vague fear that 
he should end in believing in her if he stayed. And 
Cherry would keep talking ; being a girl, perhaps she 
really couldn’t help it ; and it was evidently difficult 
for her to keep her voice steady. She would probably 
cry soon if she kept on. Then there would be a scene, 
and that girl, who was so much more than a match for 
Cherry, would take advantage of it to pretend hard- 
er than ever. After they had cried together, nobody 
could convince Cherry that she wasn't a martyr. 

Cherry left the horse fastened to a tree. He was as 
submissive and mild-mannered now as a horse need be, 
and looked after them with a neigh that sounded like 
friendly regret. 

“ He isn’t fit for a saddle-horse, of course, but he’s 
too good to draw a tin-peddler’s wagon — for a girl, 
too,” said Phonse. “ I wonder if she’ll go on doing it, 


136 


FLYING HILL FARM. 


now they’ve been found out ? I don’t see how the old 
man can have the face to, or the girl either.” 

Cherry made no answer. They had had a heated 
argument about leaving the horse, and Cherry was anx- 
ious not to reopen it. Phonse refused to believe in 
Dilly. He said she was only acting ; that her father 
could not possibly have carried out the deception with- 
out her help. 

“You’ll see what other people will say — grown peo- 
ple,” he said. “ I don’t suppose you think you know 
more than the whole town.” 

“ If the whole county should think that Dilly had 
helped her father to deceive, I should know she hadn’t,” 
said Cherry, firmly. 

“You call thinking knowing , and you think so be- 
cause you want to think so. That’s just like girls,” 
said Phonse, scornfully. “She did act pretty well, I’ll 
say that for her. But of course he wouldn’t have 
taken the trouble to deceive her; he’d know that she 
wouldn’t tell of him.” 

“He might know that she was different from him 
altogether, and wouldn’t help him,” said Cherry. 

She made the pony go so fast that Phonse on foot 
found it difficult to keep up with him. Phonse was 
always pertinacious at an argument, and Cherry was 
tired of it ; and she wanted an opportunity to think, 
quietly, how she could help Dilly in the troublous 
times that were before her. She had never thought of 
helping any one but Phonse before, in her life, unless 
it might have been to beat eggs, or seed raisins, or run 
of errands for Loveday in domestic emergencies. To 
do everything she could do for Phonse, with a feeling 
that grandma was watching to see how she kept her 
promise, to keep out of scrapes and “ get along ” with 
Rhoda, and not to miss any possible good times — these 


FLYING IIILL FARM. 


137 


efforts had hitherto made up the sum and substance of 
Cherry’s life. She had pitied herself ever since she 
could remember as having a great many troubles. It 
was a new idea that there were people who had more 
whom she might help. It was astonishing how one’s 
own troubles dwindled in this new view of things. 
Cherry was reminded of one of Philander’s stories of 
an island which was surrounded by such a peculiar at- 
mosphere that its shore looked like a rocky rampart, 
and its inhabitants such huge giants that no one dared 
go near them, while when one had landed one found only 
a little pebbly beach, and little good-natured gnomes 
and pygmies w r ere the islanders. To them every com- 
ing ship looked a huge mountain that was going to 
crush them. And this queer state of things was the 
result of nothing in the world but the vapor from their 
own broth, and they were forced to send for the good 
giant Knoopen-Puffin to cool their broth and blow the 
vapor all away. 

“I really believe that Knoopen-Puffin has cooled my 
broth,” said Cherry to herself. “And I will help Dil- 
ly if I can. I hope Uncle David will think I did right 
about the horse, but I don’t know.” 

Phonse kept up with the pony in a determined man- 
ner ; he also kept on with his arguments to convince 
Cherry that Dilly Gage was an “ accessary.” 

“Now, you don’t suppose that that girl didn’t know 
it was her father dressed up to frighten people that 
you met in the road that night ? If she hadn’t known 
she wouldn’t have followed him, you may be sure. I 
thought then that it was very queer for a girl to be so 
brave.” 

“ It wasn’t, Phonse ; it wasn’t a man. If you could 
have seen it — ” 

“ I used to think you had some sense,” said Phonse, 


138 


FLYING HILL FARM. 


severely. “ See there ! if here isn’t Ben getting over 
the fence. Ben, Ben !” (Phonse was in a great hurry, 
for he was afraid that Cherry meant to try to persuade 
him not to tell of his discovery; there was no telling 
to what lengths Cherry might go in her sympathy with 
Dilly Gage.) “ I say, Ben, we’ve found the ghost.” 

“You’ve found the ghost!” echoed Ben, staring at 
him in a perplexity which was not without a little 
touch of indignation. “ You’ve found the ghost ? 
Why, we’ve got Mm /” 


CHAPTER XIII. 

As Ben made this astonishing announcement he ad- 
vanced into the road, and following him in a perfectly 
docile and submissive way was a huge bear. In the 
bear’s wake appeared Simmy Backup with a radiant 
countenance. 

Cherry cried out, and the pony trembled and pranced 
so that it was difficult to quiet him. 

“Don’t you see that he’s tame, you goosie?” cried 
Ben to Cherry. “ He’s like a lamb. And lie’s edu- 
cated, too ; he’s a performing bear. He can beat Gari- 
baldi all hollow, can’t he, Simmy?” 

“ Well, I don’t think he’s any more — more intellect- 
ual, naturally,” said Garibaldi’s master, loyally. “ He 
must have been in a show, you see. If Garibaldi had 
had his advantages — ” 

“You ought to see him stand on his hind-legs !” ex- 
claimed Ben, enthusiastically. The bear took this for 
a command, or else was in the habit of displaying this 
accomplishment when strangers appeared, for he im- 
mediately raised his ponderous body to an upright 


THE BEAR IMMEDIATELY RAISED HIS PONDEROUS BODY TO AN UPRIGHT POSITION AND SHOOK HIS GREAT PAWS, 

LIKE A DOG THAT BEGS FOR HIS DINNER.” 


\ 






FLYING HILL FARM. 


139 


position and shook his great paws, like a dog that begs 
for his dinner. 

“It was he that we saw that night, Dilly and I !” cried 
Cherry. “He was waving his paws just like that !” 

“ Of course it was. Didn’t I tell you that we had 
got the ghost?” said Ben. “Think of such a lot of 
people being frightened at a poor old tame bear! He 
must have come through the woods all the way from 
Belford ; the show has been round there for two or 
three weeks. I think, and so does Simmy, that it’s the 
same bear that was here with that show last summer. 
And see! he sort of pricks up his ears when we call 
him Cap’n Jack.” 

In fact the bear took a few dancing steps, and 
wagged his paws joyfully, at sound of the name. 

“ He’s some , I can tell you !” said Ben, with empha- 
sis. “ Why, it was from him that we got our ideas of 
educating Garibaldi. A ghost ! that’s just about the 
way ghosts always turn out when you’re not fright- 
ened, but just hunt them up.” 

“I never thought of being afraid of ghosts,” said 
Simmy, stoutly. “ I knew there were no such things.” 

“I don’t see how anybody could call Cap’n Jack 
white,” pursued Ben, “although he is rather light-col- 
ored for a bear. Didn’t we have a great time getting 
him, though ! If it hadn’t been for Simmy he’d have 
been dead now, poor old fellow ! and shouldn’t I have 
felt like a murderer when I found out who he was. 
He was behind a tree when I caught sight of him, near 
the logging camp ; he was on top of the camp last 
night; Simmy saw him. He — he didn’t say much 
about it.” (Ben had become suddenly alive to the 
necessity of concealing Simmy’s weakness.) “Fancy 
his climbing the ladder just like a person ! We made 
him do it this morning, to see if he really could. Well, 


140 


FLYING HILL FARM. 


where was I? Oh, I fired at him. I expected he’d 
spring at us the next minute — a bear, you know. Of 
course I ought to have stopped to think that he was 
probably tame, but I didn’t. I was thinking of orfle 
bear -fights I’d read of, and of that bear Philander 
knows about that killed nineteen armed men and 
ground their bones all to meal. A fellow may not 
exactly swallow that, you know, but when he comes 
right upon his first bear, scarcely three feet off, and a 
big one — well, a story like that does occur to him, you 
know. If it hadn’t been for Simmy — Simmy saw 
the collar round Cap’n Jack’s neck, and the broken 
rope, and he knocked the rifle up. It isn’t every fel- 
low that would have been so quick ; some fellows 
would have been afraid.” 

“ I’d be ashamed to be afraid of a bear,” said Simmy, 
flushed with honest pride. 

“Philander was scared ’most to death. He had 
come after us because he thought the rifle wasn’t load- 
ed. Fancy my not being up to Philander’s tricks! I 
never take it until I’ve satisfied myself that he hasn’t 
been tampering with it. He generally has. It isn’t a 
thing I’d say everywhere, of course, but just among 
ourselves — Philander is an orfle coward ! For a fellow 
who has shot such a lot of dragons and things, he’s 
uncommonly afraid of a gun. He heard the rifle go 
off just before he got to us, and the next minute he 
saw the bear. He was as pale as could be. ‘ She’s an 
orfle hand to kick, that rifle is,’ he said. ‘ You’d bet- 
ter drop her. And you jest come off and leave the 
cretur, if so be he’ll let ye.’ And after I told him he 
was tame, and poor old Cap’n Jack had stood up and 
begged at him, he kept saying, ‘He’s a terrible big 
bear, boys, a terrible big one.’ You needn’t tell me 
that Philander wasn’t afraid of that bear” 


FLYING HILL FARM. 


141 


“ In the daytime, too, you know,” said Simmy Back- 
up, with a very superior air. “ It’s a pity to be such 
a ’fraid-cat.” 

“He went back ‘across lots’; he said he was in a 
hurry to finish hoeing his beans; but I think he didn’t 
want to go home with the bear,” said Ben, with a 
scornful accent. 

“ I think you’d better go along, if you don’t mind. 
Tam doesn’t like him very well,” said Cherry. 

“ Tam doesn’t like him !” echoed Ben. “ Oho ! you 
think I don’t know you’re just trying to bear up. 
Well, you’ve done pretty well for a girl who isn’t 
much acquainted with bears. And the Cap’n is pretty 
big, and not so very handsome, but he’s a good fellow; 
aren’t you, Cap’n ?” 

The bear responded to this compliment and the pat 
which Ben gave him by getting up on his hind-legs 
again, and offering cordially to shake hands. 

“ If you could just get him off to one side of the 
road, so Tam would go by him,” said Cherry, in rather 
faint accents. 

“I think his collar is too tight, and he looks hollow; 
he must be hungry,” said Phonse, anxiously. 

“Of course a common bear could get his living in the 
woods,” said Ben, “but it’s different for him, with his 
education. We don’t know what he’ll eat, but we’re 
going to try him with everything. Hurry, will you, 
Phonse? Loveday will let you have pound-cake and 
preserves for him.” 

“ It’s a shame to take a creature like that out of his 
native woods and make a show of him,” said Phonse, 
hotly. “I’ve no doubt they tortured him teaching 
him to perform those foolish antics.” 

“ I should like to know if it isn’t better for him to 
be an ornament to society than a poor, hunted — ” 


142 


FLYING HILL FARM. 


“ Oh, Ben, do get him up onto the bank and let me 
go by,” interrupted Cherry, knowing by previous ex- 
perience that the argument for and against the educa- 
tion of the lower animals was likely to be interminable. 

“ I shouldn’t expect a girl to appreciate a bear, but 
I should think you might see that the poor old fellow 
is harmless,” grumbled Ben. But he led Captain Jack 
up to the fence, leaving all the space possible for the 
accommodation of Cherry and her pony ; and they 
went on at a lively pace, Tam evidently as much re- 
lieved as his mistress to leave the bear behind. Cherry 
was not very timid usually, but she was impressed, as 
Philander had been, with the remarkable size of the 
bear. If his natural ferocity should break out, it seemed 
to Cherry that he might be quite capable of devouring 
as many men and muskets as Philander’s fabled bear. 

As Tam turned into the highway her attention w T as 
attracted by a man who was pasting posters upon a 
fence. He got into his wagon and drqve rapidly off 
towards the village before she overtook him. She 
stopped to read the first poster : 

“Strayed or stolen from the Great Moral and Intellectual 
Show at Belford, lower village, July 7th, the celebrated perform- 
ing bear Captain Jack. A liberal reward will be paid for his 
return to the subscriber at Belford. J. P. Landis, 

“ Proprietor G. M. and I. Show.” 

A little farther on, Philander, with his hoe over his 
shoulder, was stopping to read one of the posters. 

“ Well, I snum, if them boys wa’n’t acquainted with 
that bear ! Never see him but jest once, neither, and 
that was more’n a year ago. He’s a consid’able good- 
sized bear, now, ain’t he? Not but what I’ve seen ’em 
bigger, but he is fair to middlin’ — he is, for certain. I 
don’t say them boys is foolhardy; he appears as if 


FLYING HILL FARM. 


143 


butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth ; but ’tain’t in my 
nater to put confidence in a bear, and I ain’t sorry that 
the owner’s found, and they’ve got to carry him home, 
for ’twould be consid’able like a couple of boys to 
want to keep him. Well, now, you see what fools 
folks can make of themselves about apparitions ! 
Them Roarin’ Brook folks got up a ghost seven feet 
high, and all in white, out of a poor old tame bear.” 

Cherry chirruped to Tam. She certainly was not 
called upon to explain to Philander that it was prob- 
ably another “ appearition” and not the bear which 
had frightened the Roaring Brook people. She met 
ITncle David just driving out of the lane. He looked 
in evident surprise at Cherry’s disturbed and downcast 
face. 

“Well, didn’t the young female tin-peddler accept 
the horse graciously?” he asked, in a very jocose way 
for Uncle David. 

“She — she said she didn’t want to take him, but I 
left him. I think she will.” 

“I think she will, too,” said Uncle David, with an 
accent which seemed to imply a very low opinion of 
Dilly Gage. He drove on, and although Phonse’s dis- 
covery was on the very tip of Cherry’s tongue, it did 
not come out. Uncle David would be so sure to think 
Dilly an “ accessary.” And there was no need for her 
to be in haste ; Phonse would take that matter out of 
her hands. 

Rhoda was sitting on the porch, under the shadow 
of the hop -vine, with a bit of fleecy -white crochet- 
work, which, under her nimble fingers, was rapidly de- 
veloping into a dainty hood. 

“You haven’t even begun a thing for the fair yet, 
have you ?” she said, with an accusing accent. “ Pve 
been saving up so carefully that I have almost seven 


144 


FLYING HILL FARM. 


dollars to spend for it. I didn’t feel like asking papa 
for any money, now that he has been losing so much.” 

That meant the horse ! and Cherry thought Rhoda 
might have spared her, since she already felt so un- 
happy about it ; but Rhoda had a theory that Cherry 
lacked “ a realizing sense ” — a favorite expression of 
Loveday’s — and that it was her duty to help her to ac- 
quire one. Rhoda had no feeling that her father’s mon- 
ey belonged less to Cherry than to herself ; if she had 
been her sister she would have uttered her little reflec- 
tions in just the same way ; but to Cherry the conscious- 
ness that she was an alien gave them a deeper sting. 

“ I don’t care about the fair. I don’t care about 
the old Village Improvement Society, anyway. It is 
as much as I can do to improve myself,” she said, 
crossly, switching the hop-vine with her riding-whip 
until a shower of leaves fell into Rhoda’s lap. 

Rhoda brushed them away placidly. 

“ If you are really trying to improve yourself, Cher- 
ry, I’m sure I’m glad, but I can’t say I think it looks 
much like it to be so cross. I should suppose you might 
be satisfied since you have had your own way about 
giving that girl a horse. I think myself that it was a 
very ridiculous thing, when we don’t know that she 
isn’t a dreadful impostor. If she isn’t, why, then, we 
ought to find it out. I’m so anxious to hear whether 
Chissy Fenwick remembers anything about that day! 
It’s much better to be just to people than to give them 
presents.” (There was no doubt that Rhoda, in her 
moral reflections, did sometimes, as Ben said, “ hit the 
nail on the head.”) 

“This had nothing to do with her being an im- 
postor or not,” said Cherry, hotly ; “ and it wasn’t a 
present. I owed it to her because it was on my ac- 
count that her old horse was killed.” 


FLYING HILL FAKM. 


145 


“ I advised papa not to let you do it, but he doesn’t 
listen to me at all lately. Ever since that day in court 
he seems to think that you and Phonse know every- 
thing, but I think there is something very queer about 
the way you act. You seem to have some secret. It 
wasn’t a bit like Phonse to go down to the Gages with 
you. I can’t think what made him do it.” 

It was evident that Rhoda was at her old occupation 
of “ putting two and two together.” Cherry found that 
saying the alphabet backward — Loveday’s recipe for a 
ruffled temper — was likely to prove ineffectual, and ran 
off up-stairs to her room. 

She was sitting by the window, still brooding over 
her troubles, when Rhoda put her head in at the door. 

“ I think you might have told me that the ghost was 
a bear, and the boys had him,” she said, in an aggrieved 
tone. “ Isn’t he wonderful ? He bowed to me, and 
wanted to shake hands. I couldn’t do that, but I like 
to see him ; he isn’t like that horrid pig. They’ve got 
him on the barn floor, and nine boys have come already; 
no one knows how they heard of him; and Phonse is 
going to make his collar larger, for fear he isn’t com- 
fortable, and he is feeding him with cookies and honey; 
he has always heard, he says, that bears like honey ; 
and Philander has gone to get his fiddle, because they 
think the bear can dance, and you’d really better come 
down.” 

Cherry understood perfectly, in spite of the injured 
tone, that this was an overture to a reconciliation. It 
was she who made them, after their little differences, 
more often than Rhoda. She thought Rhoda must have 
enjoyed the bear very much to have become so good- 
natured. But perhaps the truth was that Rhoda’s good 
angel suddenly reminded her of something that Ben 
had once said, and which she had resented as untrue at 
10 


146 


FLYING HILL FARM. 


the time. Certain it is that the only listener, a great 
brown bee in the hop-vine, heard her say: 

“I don’t mean to say hateful things to Cherry, but 
she is very trying.” And the bee buzzed his opinion 
so loudly that it sounded like scolding. “ Perhaps I do 
say hateful things to Cherry,” she admitted. 

And that was before the bear and the boys came into 
sight. So it will be seen that Cherry gave Rhoda less 
credit than she deserved. But Cherry went with great 
alacrity to see the bear dance. In her heart she thought 
him less fascinating than the pig, because one had al- 
ways heard and read of performing bears, but an ac- 
complished pig was rare. 

The barn was rapidly filling with boys of all ages and 
complexions. Ben and Simmy Backup were making 
strenuous efforts to keep them from crowding around 
the bear, to the great hinderance of his performances. 
Captain Jack was evidently enjoying his social success, 
and was offering unlimited hand-shaking to the crowd. 

Simmy Backup was walking about, assuring every 
one, with something of a superior air, that there was 
not the least occasion for being afraid of the bear, and 
hearing, with intense satisfaction, Ben’s story, related 
over and over, of his prowess in striking up the rifle, 
so that it’s ball went harmlessly into the air. Ben knew 
how to appreciate a fellow’s bravery, and wasn’t a bit 
envious of it; and Simmy’s consciousness of having 
acquitted himself well at the last made him almost for- 
get those humiliating moments when he had been forced 
to acknowledge to himself that he was afraid. It was 
even more consoling than Philander’s oft-repeated as- 
sertion that “ ’twa’n’t nothin’ but fools that wa’n’t afraid 
when there was something to be afraid of.” Even Phi- 
lander would be scornful if he knew that he (Simmy) 
was afraid — oh, deep disgrace — of the dark! 


FLYING HILL FARM. 


14V 


Little Caleb Backup, with two other small boys and 
a very small girl (the granddaughter of old Mrs. Sally 
Pitkin, who lived “ across the field,” who had wandered 
from home in a hasty toilet, consisting of a yellow flan- 
nel night-gown and one shoe) had taken refuge, in a 
state of mingled delight and alarm, upon the ladder, 
where immediate flight to the liay-loft was easy. 

The hens and ducks and geese and turkeys that were 
constantly wandering through the great barn, from door 
to door, had all fled, clucking and quacking and hiss- 
ing — all except one belated bantam, which surveyed the 
proceedings from the hay-loft, cocking its head and 
cackling, with a mixture of astonishment and alarm, 
and the ill-tempered gobbler that paraded the outskirts 
of the crowd, gobbling himself purple. The spotted 
calf, after one glimpse at the invader, had kicked up 
his heels and made a bee-line for the meadow, where he 
might find safety with his mother and the other ma- 
trons of the herd ; and Sultan, the old house-dog, was 
barking so madly that he had to be ignominiously thrust 
into the granary and locked up. Only Corny Butter- 
cup, the yellow kitten, valiantly faced the foe, her back 
elevated to a bristling ridge, and her tail as large as all 
the rest of her small person ; and how the audience 
shouted when Captain Jack playfully pretended to cuff 
her with his huge paw! 

“ We might bring Garibaldi in, too,” suggested Sim- 
my, in an aside to Ben. “ It would be a sort of first 
appearance for him, and get him used to a crowd.” 

Ben looked at the bear, at Philander, who was tuning 
his fiddle, and then at the throng of boys, with a specu- 
lative eye. 

“ We’ve got the material here for a great show, Sim- 
my!” he said, impressively. 

“And we’re just about wasting it!” Simmy replied. 


148 


FLYING HILL FARM. 


“ There are only a few of the boys here who can 
really appreciate that bear, or Garibaldi, either,” con- 
tinued Ben. 

“ And they’re not going to pay a cent,” said Simmy, 
with much feeling. Simmy had a keen eye to business. 

“ If we could only have that bear for an evening 
performance, and have a little time to get ready.” 

“ And charge,” added Simmy. 

“ Perhaps ten cents or so,” assented Ben, who usual- 
ly thought very little of his pocket. “ It would be a 
great advertisement for Garibaldi, to say nothing of 
the experience he would get. But of course we must 
take the bear home at once. It wouldn’t be the square 
thing to keep him.” 

“Perhaps the man will let you, Ben,” suggested 
Cherry, who had overheard. “ The man who put up 
the posters, I mean. I saw him. He was driving tow- 
ards the village. You might possibly find him there 
now.” 

“Probably he is only a bill-poster, and hasn’t any 
authority,” said Ben. 

“ But there’s a chance,” cried Simmy, eagerly. 

“Yes, there is, and we won’t lose it,” said Ben. 
“ Wait a moment, Philander. Ladies and gentlemen !” 
Ben had mounted a barrel, and he made a bow to the 
spectators — as polite a bow as if they had paid, which 
Simmy thought a mistake. Captain Jack, when he 
saw it, bowed also, turning from side to side with pro- 
fessional. ease and grace. “ Ladies and gentlemen,” 
repeated Ben, when a murmur of applause had sub- 
sided, “this great — great — astonishing show, and — 
and uniquest bear in the world, will be postponed.”' 
(Ben was not used to public speaking, and was some- 
what confused by trying to remember the impressively 
large words he had seen in advertisements.) “ Maybe 


FLYING HILL FARM. 


149 


he — it — they — won’t come off at all. It doesn’t belong 
to us — the bear, I mean. But at any rate the talented 
Performing Pig, the greatest marvel of the age, owned 
and educated by Simeon Backup, Esq., with a little as- 
sistance from me ” (Ben was capable of modesty and 
self-sacrifice, but he felt that it was carrying things too 
far not to claim such an honor as that when it right- 
fully belonged to one) “-will make his first public ap- 
pearance on any stage in this barn (which is bigger 
than his native barn) at an early date, of which due 
notice will be given. Maybe Captain Jack will ap- 
pear too. Anyway, we’ll let you know.” 

There was a murmur of dissatisfaction, which grad- 
ually rose to a shout of angry remonstrance, as Ben 
jumped down from the barrel, and Philander stood 
with his bow in the air and his mouth wide open with 
astonishment. 

“Well, the idees of boys is like greased lightnin’ ! 
There ain’t no follerin’ ’em. But ’tain’t fittin’, nohow, 
that a man of my parts should be fiddlin’ for a dancin’ 
bear.” 

Philander’s tone made it possible to suspect that he, 
like the crow r d of boys, was disappointed. 

“ But you will play, won’t you, Philander, when we 
have the great performance?” said Simmy. 

“I don’t know what you’re a-talkin’ about. You 
can’t keep that bear. Your pas -won’t countenance no 
such doin’s,” said Philander. 

“ Of course we wouldn’t do it unless the owner gave 
us leave,” said Ben, indignantly. “ But I’ll tell you what 
I’ve thought of. It said on the posters that a reward 
would be paid for the return of the bear. Now, of 
course, we don’t want to take a reward for a little 
thing like that, which was only fun to us, do we, 
Simmy ?” 


150 


FLYING HILL FARM. 


“ No-o,” said Simmy, somewhat faintly, for had he 
not already reckoned that his share might he as much 
as five dollars ; that he could replace the thirty-nine 
cents of his missionary money which he had spent for 
candy (Simmy was possessed of a sweet tooth, which 
was only a little smaller trial than his timidity), and 
about which his conscience was pressing him sorely; 
and had he not, even while that most fascinating bear 
was displaying his accomplishments, spent, in fancy, 
more than a hundred dollars in trying to make the re- 
maining four dollars and sixty-one cents cover his 
pressing needs in the way of bicycles, base-ball bats, 
watches, guns, and traps? Nevertheless, he repeated 
the “ no ” firmly, being fully convinced that whatever 
Ben said or did was right. 

“ But we might tell the man that, instead of giving 
us a reward, he might let us keep the bear overnight 
and exhibit him. It wouldn’t hurt the show any when 
it comes ; every one would go just the same, and more. 
And so we could make a really great event of Garibal- 
di’s first appearance.” 

“ It would be an immense thing for Garibaldi. And 
if we only charged ten cents we should get an orfle lot 
of money,” said Simmy, eagerly. 

“ I suppose we should have to charge,” said Ben, 
a because the barn wouldn’t hold the crowd that would 
come if we didn’t. Come on ! If we don’t hurry, 
there’s no chance of our overtaking the man.” 


FLYING HILL FARM. 


151 


CHAPTER XIY. 

The crowd in the barn dispersed reluctantly, and 
not until Philander had withdrawn the bear into the 
seclusion of the carriage-house. 

The general indignation was somewhat soothed by 
the prospect of “ a real show,” at which not only the 
bear would appear, but also the talented pig, who had 
been carefully secluded from the gaze of all but a very 
few boys, and skilfully “ managed” by the business- 
like Simmy. Dicky Ward well and some other boys, 
who were always “short,” declared that they would 
not pay their money to see Simmy Backup’s “ old pig,” 
which, after all, was only a pig like innumerable Byer- 
ly pigs which one might look at all day for nothing, 
and strong doubts were cast upon his talents. But, in 
spite of these views, the impecunious were evidently 
much cheered by the suggestion of Tommy Nutter 
that free tickets could probably be obtained of Ben, 
who was well known to be the most generous boy in 
Byerly. 

The small yellow -night -gowned person wandered 
homeward, roaring as lustily as is possible with one’s 
thumb in one’s mouth, and leaving her one shoe in the 
middle of the barn floor, where it had caught upon a 
nail ; and Parker Fenwick, aged four, violently hurled 
green apples at the carriage-house as an expression of 
his feelings. 

“It’s too bad to disappoint them so,” said Cherry, 
sympathetically. “Here, Parker Fenwick, here are 


152 


FLYING HILL FARM. 


some early sweetings for you. You won’t care to 
throw those to frighten the poor bear, will you?” 

“ Parker Fenwick, you are a very bad boy, and I 
shall tell your aunt,” said Rhoda, severely. “ Cherry, 
I think it is very wrong of you to encourage him.” 

“I couldn’t help pitying him, he was so small and 
so mad,” said Cherry, apologetically. “I know how 
horridly it feels to be so mad as that.” 

“It is wrong to be angry, and people should not 
be rewarded for it,” said Rhoda. “And I wish you 
would stop saying mad ; it sounds so common.” 

“I will if you’ll stop blaming me. You’re always 
blaming me for something, Rhoda. And you say 
things are real nice ; Phonse says you do. That’s 
worse than mad. Oh, dear, I wish I hadn’t said that! 
I wonder if we couldn't manage to be together for five 
minutes without quarrelling.” 

“ I’m sure I never quarrel,” said Rhoda; “ but I must 
say I think you’re very trying, Cherry, and I wonder 
sometimes how I do get along with you. I was trying 
to be just as nice as I could be to you, and I went up 
after you to come and see the bear — ” 

“ So you did, Rhoda. I believe I am a horrid old 
thing. Phonse said the other day, when he was mad — 
angry, I mean — with me, that I was like the knight in 
the conundrum, ‘all fit for a fight.’ Let’s make cara- 
mels this afternoon, will you, Rhoda?” 

“If it isn’t too warm,” Rhoda assented, graciously. 

But it was much too warm; and, moreover, Ben and 
Simmy Backup returned from the village in such high 
glee at the success of their errand, and so full of plans 
and preparations for Garibaldi’s debut, that no one 
could think of anything so commonplace as caramels. 

The man who had posted the bills, and whom they 
found eating his dinner at the village hotel, proved to 


FLYING IIILL FARM. 


153 


be the keeper of the animals. He also owned an inter- 
est in the show, and had authority to allow them to 
keep the bear, and he gave them this permission in lieu 
of the promised reward, the more readily for the rea- 
son that, on account of the illness of the manager, and 
also because of some trouble about the location of the 
tent, which they had wished to erect on an old race- 
course at Belford lower village, the performances were 
to be postponed for several days. 

The boys were to keep Captain Jack over two nights, 
and were to have the great performance on the second 
night, that they might have plenty of time for prepara- 
tion. It was necessary that Garibaldi should have as 
many rehearsals as possible, in view of the danger that 
Captain Jack would, as Philander said, “ take the shine 
off him and these rehearsals were held with closed 
doors, and the air was full of mystery. 

In spite of the great event which was approaching 
Cherry’s mind was full of the problem of what Hilly 
Gage would do in this new state of things, which she 
and Phonse had been the means of bringing about. 
She could not be sorry, she said to herself, for the ex- 
posure of such a fraud, but yet Dilly’s face, with its 
look of suffering, haunted her. Phonse must have told 
by this time. Why did not some one speak of it? 
Uncle David was always reticent, but Phonse was not 
likely to confine the telling to him, and Loveday would 
be sure to make it a subject of nine days’ wonder and 
speculation. The whole village would be in a state of 
excitement about it, for Byerly had but few sensations, 
and the fact that there was a division in public opinion 
concerning the railroad case had kept alive the interest 
in it. 

Phonse did not seem as much relieved by the discov- 
ery that he had not been the means of wronging the 


154 


FLYING HILL FARM. 


Gages as Cherry thought it natural that he should feel; 
he went about scowling. But then he did not approve 
of training animals, and was scornful of the proposed 
Great Exhibition. (That was the name that had been 
chosen by the boys as the most modest that had sug- 
gested itself.) Perhaps it was his sympathy for Gari- 
baldi and the bear that was making him unhappy, Cher- 
ry thought. 

It was while they were at breakfast the next morn- 
ing that Farmer Pritchard, who lived near them, came 
and stood in the open window with his folded arms 
resting on the sill, with his hat pushed back from his 
heated brow, and evidently in a state of too great ex- 
citement for ordinary greetings. 

“Well, now, squire, them folks that calc’lated the 
railroad company had cheated old Gage out of his 
rights, and them doctors that said he was blind, and 
paralyzed, and dyin’ by inches, have got to sing small, 
haven’t they? They must feel consid’able meachin’!” 

Uncle David looked at him with wondering inquiry. 
“ Think of him bein’ ketched that way! ’Twas as good 
as a show. You don’t mean to say, squire, that you 
hain’t heard that old Gage was ketched down cellar 
eatin’ baked beans ? Why, the story they tell down 
in the village is that ’twas your nephew Phonse that 
ketched him — Phonse and Cherry. That girl of old 
Gage’s — Dilly, I b’lieve they call her — she let it out to 
Cally Bumpus; she happened to go in yesterday morn- 
in’; and that girl was takin’on as if she was distracted, 
and Cally got it out of her what had happened. Old 
Gage wa’n’t nowhere round, and now they say he has 
run away. He took all his money (some thinks he had 
consid’able) and never left the girl a cent. That’s wdiat 
she says, I expect. It’s just as well not to believe any- 
thing that old Gage’s girl says.” 


FLYING HILL FARM. 


155 


“ Phonse and Cherry,” said Uncle David, knitting his 
brows, as he looked from one to the other, “is it true 
that you knew this — that it was you who made the dis- 
covery, and you concealed it?” Uncle David’s tone was 
perplexed, as well as severe. 

“We — we — I didn’t mean to conceal it,” faltered 
Cherry. “I couldn’t bear to tell, I pitied Dilly so; 
but I thought that Phonse had. He said we must.” 

“Said you must! It seems very strange that you 
should wish to be a party to such an imposition as that, 
and that’s what you were when you concealed it. If they 
had chosen to brave it out and keep up the imposition, 
I suppose you would never have told what you saw!” 

“ I expect the bear drove it out of their heads,” in- 
terposed Loveday,who always tried to shield every one 
of the flock, but especially Cherry and Phonse. 

“Ho, it wasn’t that,” said Phonse, calmly, although 
with a frowning brow. “ I didn’t forget, and I meant 
to tell at once, but I thought it would be mean not to 
let Cherry do as she liked, when she felt so badly about 
that girl. She believes in that girl, and she knows no 
one else will; but I knew she would tell in time.” 

“I never believed in Dilly Gage,” said Rhoda, tri- 
umphantly. “I thought it was horrid, if her father 
really was hurt, that the railroad shouldn’t pay him ; 
but I always thought she was a bad girl, and of course 
anybody would know that if her father was making be- 
lieve she must — ” 

“ Cherry, I wish you would learn to be a little more 
frank and straightforward,” said Uncle David. 

“ I knew she and Phonse had a secret,” said Rhoda ; 
“ but then they so often have. There was that arith- 
metic- — ” 

Rhoda stopped short, either because Phonse’s scowl 
was so black or from some better impulse. 


156 


FLYING HILL FAEM. 


Her father was questioning Phonse and Cherry. 
Phonse readily told the story of the visit which Cherry 
and he had made to the Roaring Brook settlement. 

“ The girl did act as if she were surprised,” he said. 
“Cherry thinks she was.” 

“ What did you think ?” asked Uncle David. 

Phonse looked at Cherry and hesitated. It was a 
kind look, as if he disliked to make her feel badly. 
And it was to spare her feelings that he had not told 
what they had discovered ! Such thoughtfulness was 
so new in Phonse that Cherry’s heart swelled, and a 
choking sob arose in her throat. 

“What did you think?” repeated Uncle David, 
sharply. 

“Well, I thought she might be pretending,” ad- 
mitted Phonse. “ Still, if she knew that he could 
get up I shouldn’t think she would have made us 
come in.” 

“It seems probable that they got up the plot, and 
carried i’t out together,” said Uncle David ; “ but I 
don’t know that it signifies much whether the girl had 
anything to do with it or not. I am very glad that 
the old man has betrayed himself ; not that I had much 
doubt, but the matter has created a great deal of hard 
feeling against the railroad company. I don’t under- 
stand why you didn’t come at once and tell me, since 
you knew how much annoyance I had had about it. I 
wish you would remember, Cherry, that sympathy, as 
well as charity, should begin at home.” 

Cherry sat silent, her eyes full of hot tears, feeling 
herself misjudged and misunderstood. Had she not al- 
ways wished, above all things, to be frank and straight- 
forward ? And, although she disliked so much to tell 
what they had discovered, she would surely have done 
so if she had not thought Phonse would relieve her 


FLYING IIILL FARM. 


157 


from all responsibility. Phonse, in trying to be kind 
to her, had got them both into trouble. 

Loveday found her in tears, in the rainy-day attic, 
where Rhoda would be sure not to come. 

“ I don’t see as it’s anything more than a blunder,” 
she said, “and I wouldn’t feel so about it, if I was you, 
dearie. Of course you expected Phonse to tell ; it 
wa’n’t a mite like him not to, when he’s been so dread- 
ful down on them Gages.” 

“Phonse thinks a great deal more about hurting 
my feelings than he used to, Loveday,” said Cherry, 
finding a little balm in that thought. “He seems to 
think more of other people every way since that day 
in court. I think it’s because he has felt so badly him- 
self.” 

“Ah, that’s the way of it, dearie. Sometimes I 
think it’s the meanin’ of it all — all the sufferin’ in the 
world is learnin’, and the mistakes goes for strength, 
if we take ’em right. If they do say you ain’t frank 
and straightforward it’s only on account of them sums. 
You wasn’t so much to blame as folks might think that 
didn’t know all about it; but any kind of deceivin’ is 
wrong, and all you can do is to learn a lesson from it, 
and bear folkses’ misjudgin’ patient, and so kind of live 
it down.” 

Loveday was a comforter. Cherry almost always 
found her so, and she had never felt any lack in her, or 
realized the need of a wiser or more educated person 
as a guide, although she was perfectly conscious of the 
weakness of Loveday’s grammar — Uncle David had 
himself taken great pains to prevent the children from 
imitating her speech — and knew that she refused to be 
convinced that Christopher Columbus was not born in 
Ohio, because didn’t her aunt live in his native place ? 
and thought that the Pilgrim Fathers’ claim to distinc- 


158 


FLYING HILL FARM. 


tion rested upon the fact that they had originated the 
Plymouth Rock breed of hens. 

Loveday frankly acknowledged that she “wa’n’t no 
great of a scholar,” and Philander had even expressed 
a doubt whether she had “ as much of a head-piece as 
some,” but the children never doubted that Loveday’s 
judgment was to be trusted in moral points; and if you 
went to her with a trouble, from a toothache to a heart- 
ache, you were sure to feel “ like one whom his mother 
comforteth.” But yet, even while Loveday was sooth- 
ing Cherry’s woes, Uncle David was pacing the floor 
of his “ den,” with a deep furrow between his brows, 
meditating upon the misdemeanors of Cherry and 
Phonse, and upon a letter which he had received, the 
day before, from his sister, whom the children knew as 
Aunt Adam, because her husband’s name was Adam, 
and who had expressed the opinion that it was far from 
proper that the bringing up of the children should be 
intrusted to Loveday, who, although undoubtedly “as 
good as gold,” was but a servant, and ignorant. It 
was an old worry, which was continually being brought 
freshly to Uncle David’s mind, but perhaps the girls 
had never been in such imminent danger of the board- 
ing-school which they dreaded as on this day. 

When the sting of Uncle David’s reproof had some- 
what softened, Cherry began to feel a greater pity than 
ever for Dilly. It seemed likely that, as Phonse said, 
no one else would believe in her. She could not help 
thinking that Uncle David’s remark that it mattered 
little whether she were guilty or not sounded heartless. 

Was no one to offer her any sympathy or help if she 
were innocent? And if she were guilty, poor, untaught 
Dilly, was no one to pity bad people? Perplexing 
problems were vexing Cherry’s brain, problems which 
had never troubled them until Dilly Gage’s hard fort- 


LOVEDAY FOUND HER IN TEARS IN THE RAIN Y- DA Y ATTIC 





mz 


B m 






































































\ 




















FLYING HILL FARM. 


159 


unes had roused her sympathy, while, in the mean time, 
Ben and Simmy Backup, with only the cares of the am- 
bitious showman upon them, were rapidly and gayly 
pushing forward the preparations for the Great Exhi- 
bition. There were some difficulties. Garibaldi was 
unable to understand Captain Jack’s playful little fa- 
miliarities, and his fright at first reduced him to his 
natural porcine stupidity ; it seemed doubtful whether 
he would display his acquirements to great advantage 
in such disturbing company. But after a while the 
force of habit proved stronger than fear, and Garibaldi 
performed his tricks with his usual grunting reluc- 
tance. Then the boys were struck by the painful prob- 
ability that Captain Jack would “take the shine off 
him.” There never was such a bear. The glowing ad- 
vertisements of the show had but feebly described him. 
Ben felt that his phrase “ the uniquest bear in the 
world,” which had struck him as very happy, was alto- 
gether inadequate. 

“It’s of no use to talk about him,” said Simmy, im- 
pressively. “ Nobody would believe what he can do. I 
knew he was the greatest thing in the show last year, 
and I didn’t half see him.” 

Little Caleb Backup seemed to be impressed by him 
with a very curious idea. 

“Is he a truly bear?” he demanded, regarding him 
steadfastly, with his hands in the pockets of his first 
trousers. “He looks as if Philander had told him.” 

And this tribute to his story-telling powers almost 
recompensed Philander for the mortifications he had 
suffered in the matter of the bear-hunt. 

“ Of course you expect a bear to perform better than 
a pig,” Ben remarked, consolingly, to Simmy, who was 
evidently depressed by doubts concerning Garibaldi’s 
success. “They have more brains, naturally; and then 


160 


FLYING IIILL FARM. 


just tliink of Captain Jack’s advantages ! Garibaldi 
isn’t what you could really call professional.” 

“We’ve taken an orfle lot of pains with him,” said 
Simmy, wiping his heated brow. (He was sitting upon 
a barrel in an interval between the rehearsals.) “It 
doesn’t seem as if any two fellows ever worked so 
hard. And now he can only stand on his hind-legs — 
and he won’t unless he feels just like it — and shoulder 
arms, and walk on the barrel, and you know, Ben, he 
doesn’t do any of those tricks so very well; we may 
have to help him right before people.” 

/‘No one expects him to do them well; the won- 
der is that he can do them at all, being a pig,” said 
Ben. 

“Well, it is a wonder,” said Simmy, brightening. 
“And, I say, Ben, considering that, I think we really 
ought to make the admission fee more than ten cents.” 
Having accepted Ben’s hopeful view of the matter, 
Simmy began immediately to consider its pecuniary 
bearings. “You see, it’s been so much work to edu- 
cate him that we really can’t afford to exhibit him for 
ten cents,” he continued, as Ben hesitated. “And the 
bear thrown in ! It’s too much for the money.” 

“But so many of the fellows can’t raise any more,” 
said Ben, with a sympathetic accent. “ Lots of the lit- 
tle shavers can’t. Dody Hollis asked me if we wouldn’t 
take pins and old iron. He had a quart pail about half 
full of old rusty nails, and he said his little sister was 
picking up pins ; she wouldn’t stop to eat her dinner. 
They’ll be orfly disappointed, you know.” 

“ Old iron and pins for such a show as that !” said 
Simmy, indignantly. 

“Of course that wouldn’t do,” said Ben. “People 
would say it couldn’t be much of a show. It might 
hurt Garibaldi’s prospects. But I really think, Simmy, 


FLYING HILL FAEM. 


161 


the proceeds will be larger if we ask ten cents than 
they would at fifteen.” 

“ Well, then,” said Simmy, reluctantly. “But no 
compliment’ries.” 

Ben looked annoyed, and somewhat shamefaced, for 
had he not already planned to bestow a large num- 
ber of free tickets upon the small gatherers of old 
iron and pins, and also upon Billy Hitchcock, who had 
wished to trade his only available possession, the se- 
cret of a woodchuck’s nest, for tickets; and upon little 
Paley Goodwin, who had proposed to “ swap ” the mis- 
cellaneous contents of his pocket, including a square of 
molasses taffy, a broken knife, and a small cucumber 
pickle. 

“I’ll tell you how we’ll manage it, Simmy,” said 
Ben, after a moment’s reflection. “I should like to 
give a few compliment’ries to my friends ; they’ll ex- 
pect it, you know ; and I’ll deduct the expense from 
my share of the profits.” 

“I sha’n’t do any such mean thing as that,” said 
Simmy, stoutly. “We’ll share and share alike. But 
I guess I know who your friends are,” he added, in a 
melancholy tone. “They’re every feller in this town 
who hasn’t money enough to pay for a ticket. Some 
of ’em have, too, only you let ’em impose on you. I 
think we ought to put 4 No Deadheads,’ in big letters, 
on the bill. That sounds business-like.” 

Ben agreed to this, the more readily, perhaps, be- 
cause he did not think his friends were likely to be 
easily alarmed. 

No sooner was this difficulty satisfactorily disposed 
of than another presented itself. It seemed doubtful 
'whether the programme would be sufficiently varied, 
with only two performers, and it was decided that 
little Caleb, who was renowned for his declamatory 
11 


162 


FLYING HILL FARM. 


gifts, as displayed at Sunday and day school, should 
be induced to assist. Little Caleb readily assented to 
this arrangement, only stipulating that his name should 
appear upon the bills in as large letters as those of the 
bear and the pig. He evidently regarded it as an hon- 
or to be invited to “ speak a piece ” in such a distin- 
guished company. But it was found, upon investiga- 
tion, that none of little Caleb’s pieces were “ lively ” 
enough to be appropriate for such an entertainment, 
therefore a new one must be found in all haste, and 
little Caleb industriously coached in it. And then it 
seemed difficult to find one that was exactly suitable. 
Philander thought that age could not wither nor cus- 
tom stale “My name is Norval,” and “ The boy stood 
on the burning deck”; but all the others pronounced 
them quite too old-fashioned. Loveday was very anx- 
ious that he should recite “The Futility of Fame,” in 
an old reading-book which she produced from the attic, 
and which she said had been a famous piece for decla- 
mation when she was young, but Simmy objected to the 
subject ; he thought it might be regarded as a reflec- 
tion upon the bear; and the others thought it “too 
dry”; Philander’s next choice was “Marco Bozarris,” 
but this was open to the objection of containing too 
many large words, and was also calculated to display 
little Caleb’s lisp too freely. The girls thought the 
lisp “cunning,” but it was a great source of mortifica- 
tion to Simmy, and to little Caleb himself, as being 
unmanly. But in spite of this latter objection the 
declamation finally selected was one which little Caleb 
himself called “The Thmack in Thcool.” This was to 
be supplemented by “The Yarn of the Nancy Bell” if 
little Caleb could possibly learn it in time. He had 
not only a remarkable memory, but a great deal of ap- 
plication, for a small person, and before the momentous 


FLYING HILL FARM. 


163 


hour for opening the doors arrived, it was decided that, 
with a prompter behind the scenes (in Rory’s stall), 
little Caleb might be trusted to do his part successful- 
ly. Ben was the fortunate owner of a printing-press, 
and neither labor nor printer’s ink was spared for this 
great occasion. Little Caleb saw, with round- eyed 
wonder and delight, his own name in very large letters 
between the bear’s and the pig’s. It would have been 
useless to talk to little Caleb about the futility of fame 
after that ! Philander’s name was also on the bill, 
both as “ violin soloist ” and “ accompanist,” Ben, who 
had a prudent mind, thought that as it was quite 
probable that Garibaldi would decline an encore, the 
disappointment of the audience should be soothed at 
once by some lively tunes. 

It had been an extremely warm day, and now, at 
sunset, some dark clouds in the west threatened a 
thunder-shower. 

“People won’t stay away from such a show as this 
because of a shower ; you needn’t worry,” said Ben to 
Simmy, who was so very tired that he was inclined to 
gloomy views. 

“I’ve got an orfle feeling,” said Simmy, impressive- 
ly. “ I think it’s what our Lizy Ann calls a presenti- 
ment. I think that Garibaldi will get a stage fright.” 


CHAPTER XV. 

Ben’s prophecy that a few black clouds would not 
keep Byerly boys and girls away from such a show as 
that proved correct. Long before the barn doors were 
opened the crowd gathered around them in as great a 
variety of toilets as the beggars that came to town 


1G4 


FLYING HILL FARM. 


in Mother Goose’s rhyme. Sunday best and ragged 
jackets and bare feet jostled each other in happy un- 
consciousness of anything but the thrilling delights 
in store for them behind those tantalizing doors. It 
looked as if Simmy had not been unjust in ascribing 
to Ben very lax views in the matter of a free list ; 
many small and not over-clean hands held in a joyful 
clutch one of the precious “ compliment’ries.” 

Philander had attended to all the latest details, from 
the bear’s toilet and the Japanese lanterns along the 
drive-way to little Caleb’s deportment, evidently as 
much excited as any one, although he felt it necessary 
to the maintenance of his dignity to speak of the ex- 
hibition occasionally as “ boys’ foolishness.” He was 
now tuning his violin, and the suggestive squeakings 
which issued from the barn were raising the impa- 
tience of the crowd to a high pitch. 

Rhoda and Cherry were standing upon the back 
porch looking at the throng, and agreed, for once, in 
admiration of the conduct of two large boys who had 
taken their small brothers upon their shoulders, in an- 
ticipation of the great rush which was sure to follow 
the opening of the doors. Suddenly the familiar rattle 
and jingle of a tin-peddler’s wagon struck upon Cher- 
ry’s ear. 

“If it isn’t that girl !” cried Rhoda. “ She is turn- 
ing into the drive-way. I think she is coming to the 
exhibition. I never saw any one so bold.” 

But Dilly drove up to the porch instead of to the 
barn door. The horse that Cherry had given her was 
drawing the wagon, and he looked as meek and docile 
as if he had drawn a tin-wagon all his life. 

“ I come to see if you would let me pay for him on 
instalments,” said Billy, indicating the horse by a nod. 
“First off I calc’lated I’d fetch him right back ; then 


FLYING IIILL FARM. 


165 


I sat down and thought what I was goin’ to do. Poor 
folks can’t sit down and cry ; it’s shif’less.” 

Cherry shrewdly suspected that Dilly had indulged 
in this “shif’less” proceeding to some extent, for her 
face was very pale, and there were dark circles around 
her eyes. 

“ I was beat,” continued Dilly. “ There didn’t seem 
to he anything I could do that there was any call for, 
’thout it was tin -peddlin’. I don’t expect I’ve got 
bumps like some folks, and I hain’t been to the ’cad- 
emy, but I have got a tradin’ bump, if I do say it. 
Why, I’ve done ’most as well as ever — as ever father 
did.” (Dilly had to swallow a lump when she said 
father, but she swallowed it determinedly.) “But I 
can’t do without a horse ; and it didn’t seem, first off, 
as if I could keep this one anyhow. There ain’t any 
reason why you should give me a horse, and I ain’t 
goin’ to let nobody give me anything as long as I can 
work. But if you’ll let me keep him, and pay for 
him as I can, I’ll be real obliged to you.” 

“You would have had your old Jane if it hadn’t 
been for me. I wish you would keep that horse as a 
gift, Dilly,” said Cherry. 

“I couldn’t, anyhow; ’twould keep worryin’ me,” 
said Dilly, with decision. “ I think you’re real good, 
Cherry Eastman. Other folks besides you has been 
good to me; there’s lots that’s traded with me when 
they wouldn’t have if it hadn’t been for helpin’ me 
along; but there ain’t never been any of your kind of 
folks, stuck-up folks, that has treated me real friendly 
and as if I was like folks but just you.” Dilly’s voice 
actually threatened to break in a sob, but she mastered 
it with dignity. “ I’d take a present from you quicker 
’n I would from anybody else, but them that hain’t got 
much else has got to keep their independence.” 


166 


FLYING HILL FARM. 


“Pay for it if you like, then, Billy,” said Cherry, 
not without a sympathetic shake in her own voice — 
“ at least for my share. I don’t know what Uncle Da- 
vid will say.” 

“ I don’t believe she will ever pay for it, anyway,” 
said Rhoda aside to Cherry. “ Why doesn’t she offer 
to pay a part now? She says she has earned money.” 

Rlioda’s tone was not low enough to escape Dilly’s 
quick ears. 

“It ain’t any of your business why I don’t pay any 
now,” she exclaimed, with all her old-time sharpness. 
“But if you want to know, it’s because I haven’t got 
a cent — not a single cent. But it ain’t any of your 
business where it’s gone to, neither.” 

It was true, then, that her father had left her penni- 
less, thought Cherry. He had taken the money that 
she had earned. 

“I wouldn’t stay and talk to that perfectly dreadful 
girl, Cherry. I never saw any one so rude,” said Rho- 
da, retreating into the hall. 

“I’m sorry I sarced her,” said Billy, penitently, “ I 
be, ’cause she’s your cousin. But she needn’t have 
meddled. It don’t take any great to make me mad, 
but I don’t holler out at folks that sarce me, nor I 
don’t chase ’em and lick ’em as I used to, and it is 
’cause you said ’twas better not to. I said it wa’n’t, 
but it was; so there!” 

It evidently cost Billy something to make this con- 
fession, for she immediately changed the subject, and 
her tone was harder, as she went on: “I’ve been Elect- 
ing rags. They’ve been dull, but they’re gettin’ real 
brisk. Old Mis’ Hollis she’s been savin’ for rugs, 
more’n a year, and then her eyes give out, so she let 
me have ’em ; and Miss Sibley, the dress-maker, she 
clears out her attic this time of the year, when dress- 


FLYING HILL FARM. 


167 


makin’ is dull ; them two bags is brimful of her rags, 
and I tell you there’s some handsome pieces among 
’em! You remember the time Dr. Wallace’s grand- 
daughter got married? Well, there’s pieces of every 
one of her dresses, and of them cousins of hers that 
was bridesmaids. Miss Sibley she just had her girl 
sweep ’em up as if they wa’n’t no more’n common 
rags !” 

“Wouldn’t you like to stay to the exhibition, Dilly? 
It’s very funny to see the bear dance, and it’s good 
for people to laugh when they feel badly,” said Cher- 
ry, eagerly. “ I can get you a ticket.” 

Dilly hesitated, with a look of unmistakable longing 
towards the barn. Here was one of the good times 
which had never seemed to come in her way, and it 
was very lonely in her old house by the brook, with 
only the brook’s roaring for company. 

“ I should like to see that bear,” she admitted. “ It’s 
the same cretur that you and me saw in the road, ain’t 
it ? Folks can’t say but what ’twas the bear they saw 
every time, can they?” she added, in a low tone. “Has 
that long-legged feller that was down to my house 
with you got anything to do with the show?” 

“ Phonse ? No, he hasn’t,” answered Cherry. 

“Because I wouldn’t go to no show of his,” said 
Dilly. “ He’s always been sarcy to me, and I don’t 
like him. I expect he’d do anything to spite me.” 

“ Perhaps you don’t quite understand him,” said 
Cherry ; but she said it rather faintly. She had said 
it to many people, and to no one who seemed less likely 
to know what she meant than Dilly. “But he has 
nothing to do with the show; he doesn’t approve of it. 
My cousin Ben and Simmy Backup found the bear, and 
they are going to exhibit him; and it is they who have 
trained the pig.” 


168 


FLYING IIILL FARM. 


“A pig! can he do tricks, honest ?” asked Dilly,with 
eager interest. “ I see him once in Backup’s barn. I 
guess you was there too. I expect I sarced you con- 
sid’able. ’Twas before you ’n’ me got real well ac- 
quainted. I wouldn’t do it now. I never had no 
chance to learn to be like folks.” There was again a 
hint of breaking down in Dilly’s voice, but again she 
controlled it. “ He wa’n’t nothin’ more’n a common 
pig, as fur as I could see, only kind of slicked up a lit- 
tle. Beats all what a sight animals can learn, don’t it? 
I am acquainted with the man that has the doin’s of 
that bear, and of all the animals in that show that 
the bear b’longs to. He’s Mr. ’Kiah Pringle, Grand- 
pa Pringle we always called him, that used to live 
down at the foot of Tumble Down Hill, where Hez 
Lowry’s folks lives now. He had a granddaughter 
that was about the age of me, Phoebe Pringle. I used 
to set more by her than I did by any other girl. But 
they up and moved away, and now she’s dead, Phoebe is. 
He couldn’t hardly bear to speak of her, Grandpa Prim 
gle couldn’t, when I met him down to the village. He 
said he was calc’latin’ to settle down and have Phoebe 
to keep house for him, comfortable ; he’d been workin’ 
hard and savin’ up for that, and now she’s been took 
away. He’s an orfle good old man. I expect he’ll be 
to the show; he said he wanted to see how them young- 
sters would make out with the bear. I be goin’ to stay 
to that show! I never see a performin’ bear in my life. 
It looks some as if it was goin’ to rain, but it don’t look 
any more so than it did an hour ago. I’ll hitch the 
horse right here to the fence. No, I don’t want no 
supper, nor the horse don’t. I always carry something 
for both of us, ’cause I’m apt to be late. But you — you 
are real good to think of it.” (“ Manners” came hard 
to Dilly, but they were evidently genuine.) 


FLYING HILL FARM. 


169 


Cherry, with Ben’s permission, escorted Dilly to the 
barn by the private entrance (through the wood-shed) 
and placed her in one of the best seats. As she was 
leaving her, Dilly beckoned her back. 

“ Say, you don’t believe that I knew anything about 
it — about father; that he wa’n’t blind nor anything, do 
you?” 

“ No, I don’t believe you did,” said Cherry. 

“ I kind of thought you didn’t,” said Dilly, drawing 
a long breath. “ But I wa’n’t goin’ to stay without I 
knew you didn’t.” 

“ Cherry, I think it is very strange of you to make so 
much of that girl,” said Rhoda, whom Cherry found 
waiting for her in the wood-shed ; “ after she was so 
dreadfully rude to me, too. I asked Ben not to give 
you a ticket for her, but you make those boys do just 
as you say. No one would suppose that I was the — 
the mistress of the house.” 

“ She was rude,” admitted Cherry, ignoring Rhoda’s 
dignified claim to respect; “ but she said she was sorry. 
And what you said was horrid, Rhoda.” 

“ I didn’t say it to her. She shouldn’t have been list- 
ening. And she won’t pay for the horse ; you’ll see.” 

But the prophecy was lost upon Cherry, who had 
flown off to relight one of the Japanese lanterns, which 
had gone out. 

The great barn doors had been opened by this time, 
and Philander, as master of ceremonies, was endeavor- 
ing to prevent too great rushing and pushing. 

“Land sakes! there wa’n’t no such crowdin’ as this 
when I was to the King’s coronation, ’way off to Cuby, 
in Spain,” he cried. 

“Cuba isn’t in Spain,” declared Jackey Batterson, 
who had “ a taste exact for actual fact.” “And there 
never was a coronation — ” 


170 


FLYING HILL FARM. 


“ It’s allowable to talk book fashion to a show, Jackey 
Batterson,” Philander explained, with dignity. “And 
there’s more things in this world than the jography 
tells about. I ain’t sayin’ nothin’ against the jogra- 
phy,” continued Philander ; “it’s jest as necessary as 
meat and pertatoes; but because we’ve got to have 
meat and pertatoes ain’t no sign that we shouldn’t 
have peanuts and peppermints sometimes. There’s real 
facts and there’s story-tellin’ facts.” 

But the crowd had grown impatient of Philander’s 
philosophy, in its eagerness to get the best places to 
see the bear. There were some men and women in the 
throng, all with as keen a twinkle of anticipation in 
their eyes as the boys, and Deacon Backup, who did 
not altogether approve of circuses or shows, occupied 
a front seat. The front seats were chairs; behind 
those were benches and stools and boxes and boards. 
The hay -lofts, carefully railed w T ith ladders and 
boards by Philander to prevent accidents, served as 
galleries. 

Two of the performers were in their element — Phi- 
lander and the bear. Philander was “ more to home 
with a fiddle than some,” as he modestly admitted. 
Deacon Backup said he made it “talk right out.” Cer- 
tainly the dancing-tunes that Philander was bringing 
out of his old fiddle to-night would cause a tingling in 
the feet of anything that could dance. And this bear 
did not do his duty reluctantly, like most performing 
animals, but danced as if his toes really tingled. He 
evidently found the crowd of spectators inspiring, for 
he had never displayed his talents in rehearsal as he 
was displaying them now. He made bows that little 
Caleb could never hope to equal with all Philander’s 
teaching; he threw kisses at the (hay-loft) galleries, 
and then pretended to fire a pistol at them; he seized 


THE STARS OF THE GREAT EXHIBITION. 


/ 





mm 




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4 
























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FLYING IIILL FARM. 


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Philander’s violin, and tucking it under his chin, and 
with his head on one side, he drew an imaginary bow 
across it. The spectators were convulsed with laugh- 
ter. Captain Jack was enough to make any one forget 
his cares, unless it might be Garibaldi’s owner, who 
was harassed by a conviction that Garibaldi’s perform- 
ances must seem very tame and stupid after this, if, 
indeed, Garibaldi, unaccustomed to crowds, were not 
seized with a “ stage fright.” 

It was difficult to withdraw Captain Jack. He was 
intoxicated with his triumphs, and determined to go on 
performing. When at length Philander succeeded in 
getting him behind the scenes, there was a great whist- 
ling and stamping (it must be confessed that the breed- 
ing of the audience was not everything that could be 
desired), and calls of “ The bear! the bear!” which only 
partially ceased when little Caleb, fresh from the try- 
ing ordeal of having his hair curled with the kitchen 
poker, was led before the audience. And then it was 
the unexpected that happened. Little Caleb, the hero 
of a half - dozen Sunday - school festivals, the distin- 
guished orator of primary-school exhibition days, af- 
fected either by an unusually smart costume and the 
kitchen poker, or by the excitement of attaining his 
heart’s desire and appearing between the bear and the 
pig — little Caleb showed the white feather! No soon- 
er had he looked upon the audience than he drew his 
Hamburg-embroidery sleeve across his eyes and burst 
out crying^ They were not sobs, but roars, that burst 
from little Caleb’s troubled breast. There was a mur- 
mur of sympathy from the audience, mingled, I regret 
to say, with a few only half-smothered hisses. To some 
of the boys, little Caleb Backup “ speaking a piece ” 
was quite too mild a form of entertainment after that 
most remarkable bear. As little Caleb and his woes 


172 


FLYING HILL FARM. 


disappeared from sight, shouts of “ The bear! the bear!” 
arose from all quarters of the barn. 

“Bring on Garibaldi, boys! now’s your time!” said 
Jacky Batterson, who, as an intimate friend of the pro- 
prietors, occupied a front seat and was privileged to go 
behind the curtain, which consisted of some ancient 
chintz bed-hangings hastily sewed together. “He’ll 
be sure to make a hit; they’ll like him so much better 
than little Caleb.” (Alas for little Caleb, with his blast- 
ed ambition! Every one was too excited to pity him 
much — every one except his mother.) “They’re get- 
ting orfle impatient. It’s a good thing to have them a 
little so, but it doesn’t do, you know, to get them mad.” 
(Jacky Batterson prided himself upon his managerial 
ability.) “ Where is Garibaldi ?” 

Alas and alas! where was Garibaldi? Cleaned un- 
til he was as white as snow, scented with Rhoda’s best 
perfumery, and with a bow of blue satin ribbon adorn- 
ing his collar, the graceless pig had taken advantage 
of the open window in the stall in -which he had been 
left in this unfamiliar barn to make a jump out into 
the pigsty, where, after frantic searching, he was at 
length discovered enjoying himself with his kind, and 
as wholly unpresentable as if he had never had the least 
education. 

It seemed an overwhelming calamity, and Simmy 
gave way to despair. 

“ He’s nothing but a pig, after all the pains we’ve 
taken,” he complained. “Now, what are we going 
to do? Just hear those boys shout and stamp! It’s 
enough to drive a fellow crazy!” 

“ I knew we’d got to have an orfle lot of patience to 
educate a pig, but I didn’t expect anything quite so bad 
as this,” said Ben, ruefully. “ We ought not to have 
left him in that stall with an open window just over 


FLYING HILL FARM. 


173 


the pigsty. But, you see, no pig but a' trained one 
would ever have taken such a leap as that. But he 
only needs cleaning ; Nehemiah will do it. We’ll make 
a success of this yet, Simmy.” 

In fact, Nehemiah, Deacon Backup’s hired man, had 
already appeared from the audience, full of good-nat- 
ured zeal. 

“We shall have to let the bear go on again ; they 
won’t wait,” said Simmy. 

“ Don’t you do it,” counselled Jacky Batterson, ea- 
gerly. They’ll be getting tired of tricks and won’t 
appreciate the pig. Let Philander play lots of lively 
tunes.” 

Jacky Batterson was considered authority in these 
matters, and Philander accordingly appeared before 
the curtain, bowed in a care-free and even jovial man- 
ner, as if there were no trouble behind the scenes, and 
announced that after he had played “ a few selections ” 
the “ educated pig Garibaldi, the wonder of the age,” 
w^ould appear. And then Philander played so gayly 
that Captain Jack danced in his stall, and suddenly, to 
the great consternation of the managers, broke the rope 
that fastened him and went and poked his head out at 
the side of the curtain. Ben drew him back with dif- 
ficulty, while the audience applauded wildly. 

“ They don’t want nothin’ but the bear,” said Phi- 
lander, returning to the privacy afforded by the cur- 
tain, and wiping his heated brow. “And I expect 
nothin’ but what that bear will get obstreperous, bein’ 
kept back so. Hark! that’s him a-growlin’ now, ain’t 
it?” 

“No, it isn’t, it’s thunder,” said Ben, somewhat short- 
ly. Ben couldn’t help feeling scornful that Philander, 
who claimed to have fought single-handed with pan- 
thers and sharks, should be afraid of a tame bear. 


174 


FLYING IIILL FAEM. 


Garibaldi had been rescued from his wallowing in 
the mire and restored to the guise of an educated pig, 
freshly perfumed, and adorned with a brand-new scar- 
let ribbon, which Rhoda, with true generosity, since she 
had strongly disapproved of the pig-training, had pro- 
duced from her ribbon-box. Simmy led him — dragged, 
I am obliged to confess, would be the better word — be- 
fore the curtain, amid the great applause of the audi- 
ence. The rifle which he was to shoulder and present, 
the barrel which he was to walk, the hoops through 
which he was to jump, were all before him. Garibaldi 
looked at them with, apparently, his customary piggish 
stupidity; then he looked at the crowd of spectators. 
Their shouts and laughter rang in his ears; the lights 
blazed in his eyes; it was too much for the heart in 
any piggish bosom to endure. Garibaldi broke away 
from the firm grasp which Simmy had kept upon his 
collar. Ben, who had come out from behind the cur- 
tain to assist in Garibaldi’s performances, was just in 
time to see him make a wild rush into the midst of 
the throng of spectators. 

“ Stop him ! stop him !” cried Simmy, wildly. 

There was a panic in the audience. Girls screamed 
and jumped upon their seats. A few boys tried to 
stop the pig; mischievous urchins cheered him on. 
Some one caught him, but he broke away with frantic 
squealing. 

Philander, with philosophical calmness, kept on play- 
ing “ Money Musk.” 

It was difficult for a moment to discover what had 
become of the pig, who was as stupid in his flight as 
any uneducated pig in the world. 

“A pig! I shouldn’t think Squire Brewster would 
have allowed it,” Cherry heard a lady say, in a tone of 
great disgust; and she was the very same one who had 


FLYING HILL FARM. 175 

called Garibaldi “ a pretty fellow ” when he appeared 
in his scarlet necktie! 

A girl cried out in horror that the pig had brushed 
against her ; then, suddenly, a white shape was seen 
rushing through the door-way, and Garibaldi was lost 
in the night. 


CHAPTER XVI. 

“Let the bear go on quick — quick!” advised Jacky 
Batterson. 

It was Ben who led out Captain Jack, for Garibal- 
di’s owner, wholly overcome by the jeers and hootings 
of the boys — those boys to whom he had made such 
proud boasts of Garibaldi’s talents — had fled to the 
privacy of a stall, and was lying prone, with his face 
buried in the straw. 

“He’s nothing but a pig after all!” he groaned 
aloud, in the bitterness of his mortification. “Edu- 
cation won’t take on him any more’n my vaccination 
did.” 

The bear was as full of spirits as ever, and constant- 
ly displayed new accomplishments ; and it was quite 
evident that the spectators cared little for any failures 
in the programme since the bear was such a success. 

It was raining heavily now, and occasionally a zig- 
zag streak of lightning could be seen through the open 
doors. 

But who cared for that while they could laugh till 
they cried at the antics of that bear ? The boys lin- 
gered reluctantly after the bear had made his final bow, 
and Philander had dismissed the spectators in what he 
felt to be a very neat speech. His apologies had been 


176 


FLYING HILL FARM. 


received with cheers, and the assurance that it was a 
great show; the bear alone was worth the money. 

Condolences were being kindly offered behind the 
scenes, and some comments were made that were not 
very kindly received by the educators of the pig. 

“ Now I hope you’ll be satisfied to let him be a pig,” 
said Phonse, who was evidently not at all sorry that 
Garibaldi had made a failure. 

“ I thought he would behave badly, and I am as glad 
as can be that he did,” said Rhoda, who felt that any- 
body had a right to speak her mind who had sacrificed 
two satin ribbons and a bottle and a half of perfumery 
to the cause. “ It was such a horrid thing to do ; it 
seemed so common. I was so mortified to hear, all 
over town, that my brother was educating a pig !” 

“ He wasn’t just a common pig,” said Simmy, hotly. 
“ We never let him associate with pigs. He never was 
in a sty in his life until to-night. If we had had sense 
enough to have a rehearsal, with lights and a lot of 
people, it would have been all right.” 

“I wonder what has become of him. It is raining 
as hard as it can pour,” said Phonse, anxiously. 

“I’m afraid some of the people will have a hard time 
getting home,” said Ben ; “ but most of them had lan- 
terns.” 

“ I saw Philander going home with Mrs. Presby and 
her little girls, and Uncle David gave the Fling girls 
a lantern,” said Cherry. “ Oh, I forgot Dilly Gage !” 
she added, with a pang of remorse at her carelessness. 

“ She put her horse into the carriage-house when it 
began to rain — Uncle David told her to,” said Phonse — 
“but there wasn’t room for the wagon.” 

“Wet rags and feather-dusters will be for sale cheap 
to-morrow,” said Jacky Batterson, facetiously. 

“She can’t go home, away down to Roaring Brook, 


FLYING HILL FARM. 


177 


alone to-night,” said Phonse aside to Cherry, with a 
frowning brow. 

Cherry ran in search of Dilly, and found her try- 
ing to cover some of her wares with some old canvas 
bags. 

“ You can’t go home to-night, Dilly. They say there 
are no signs that it will stop raining. You can have 
your wagon put into the barn, and you come into the 
house with me.” 

“I ain’t a-comin’,” said Dilly. “So you just go 
right along in out of the rain. I expect I shall have 
to have the wagon put into your barn. I don’t know 
how I come to be so carried away by that bear. I 
never knew whether I was horseback or afoot. If 
’twas your house, Cherry Eastman, I expect I should 
stay, but I ain’t a-goin’ to be beholden, more’n I can 
help, to folks that don’t b’lieve in me, and ain’t no 
friends to me. I’m jest goin’ acrost the fields to Mis’ 
Sally Pitkin’s. She liked my mother, and she’ll let 
me stay with her.” 

“ But it’s so far to Mrs. Sally Pitkin’s, Dilly. And 
it pouvs. And it keeps lightning so frightfully,” said 
Cherry, persuasively. “Wait a while, at least, and see 
if it doesn’t hold up.” 

“ ’Tain’t goin’ to, and I ain’t goin’ to wake Mis’ Pit- 
kin up ’most midnight.” 

Philander, who had come back, and was wheeling the 
tin-wagon into the barn, said he would go “ acrost to 
Mis Pitkin’s with her, with the lantern, anyhow.” 

“You jest stop where you be !” said Dilly, imper- 
atively; “you’re a-drippin’ now. And I don’t need 
any light. I know every step of the way; and I can 
see by the lightnin’, anyhow.” 

“ Gals is stubborn, and she’s the beatermost. I ex- 
pect she can keep in the path,” said Philander, holding 
12 


178 


FLYING HILL FARM. 


up his lantern so that it shed its beams upon the slight 
figure going sturdily off into the darkness. 

“Has she gone?” asked Rhoda, as Cherry entered 
the house. “ Well, I shouldn’t think she would have 
felt like staying. Did you see how people stared at 
her? And she didn’t seem to be thinking of anything 
but the bear ! Well, I suppose one really can’t expect 
her to have feelings like other people. Did her rags 
and things get wet?” Rhoda added this last question 
with an air of sudden interest. 

“I don’t suppose it would hurt them much — any- 
thing but the feather-dusters,” said Cherry, thinking 
that Rhoda had more kindly interest in Dilly than she 
seemed to have, or she would not have thought of the 
possible injury to her wares. 

Philander and the boys were busy in the barn, re- 
moving the seats and the Japanese lanterns, and re- 
storing the animals to their proper quarters, Simmy 
enlivening the proceedings by the candid expression 
of his opinion of shows, and of the hollowness of the 
world in general. 

In the mean time Dilly, who had set out so sturdily, 
was fast coming to grief in the field. To know every 
step of the way by daylight does not insure one’s foot- 
steps in almost utter darkness. She found herself 
suddenly brought up against a stone wall, where, ac- 
cording to her previous ideas, no stone wall should 
have been. All familiar landmarks seemed to have 
changed places. 

“I never used to b’lieve the earth turned round 
when I went to school, but I guess it’s done it once, any- 
how! It don’t seem as if I could have got so turn- 
ed round when I was goin’ right straight along,” said 
Dilly to herself. One of Dilly’s weaknesses was a great 
fear of lightning. She could not summon sufficient 


FLYING HILL FARM. 


179 

presence of mind to take lier bearings by its flashes. 
“ The idea of their askin’ me if I wa’n’t scairt ! Of 
course I’m scairt of liglitnin’, but I wa’n’t goin’ to stay 
there, anyhow. Oh dear, if I could only ketch a glimpse 
of Mis’ Sally Pitkin’s old black house ! It ought to be 
right over there. Why, land sakes! if that ain’t the 
road that I just come from!” as a particularly brilliant 
flash illuminated the landscape for an instant. a I’ve 
most turned right round again. I can get back into 
the road, and I declare I b’lieve I shall have to go back. 
I never see such rain nor such lightnin’ in all my born 
days. There ’tis again. There’s the road and Squire 
Brewster’s barn — that’s all I can make out — and that 
ain’t where it ought to be ! But I expect, if things 
have a mind to turn themselves round, I’ve got to hu- 
mor ’em, and I can get to the barn, it’s so near, if it 
don’t take a notion to clear out somewheres else. If 
I could only get into the barn without anybody’s know- 
in’ it, I could be real comfortable on the hay. But I 
expect they’ve locked it up before this time.” 

The barn remained stationary, which was better fort- 
une than Dilly expected, and before she reached the 
road she saw a cheering light streaming from its half- 
opened door. “ If I can only get in unbeknownst! I’d 
most rather lay down here in the road than to let ’em 
know that I had to come back,” thought Billy, who, it 
must be admitted, had, on some points, much more pride 
than sense. 

Fortune favored her. Philander and the boys were 
all engaged in the interesting task of making Captain 
Jack as secure and as comfortable for the night as pos- 
sible in one of the stalls, and she slipped into the barn 
unperceived. 

She dared not venture as far as the ladder, but went 
into the first stall she came to, and by means of the 


180 


FLYING HILL FARM. 


manger and some convenient beams (Dilly could climb 
like any boy), and with no hinderances except a remon- 
strating “ moo ” from the occupant of the stall, a sleepy 
old cow, she mounted to the hay-loft. She went into 
a retired corner and covered herself with hay, thinking 
it possible that Philander might be moved to come up 
to the loft with his pitchfork to give the cows a late 
supper. They were closing the barn for the night now; 
the great doors slid together and were securely fast- 
ened. 

“I wa’n’t a minute too soon, ” thought Dilly, rejoic- 
ing in her comfortable shelter from the lightning and 
the rain. 

Now she could hear their steps retreating towards 
the wood-shed. 

“ Nobody would suppose there had been such goings 
on in that barn to-night,” remarked Ben. “It is just 
the same as ever now, except for the bear.” 

“What would they say to know that there was a 
girl in the hay-loft?” thought Dilly. 

She heard them close and fasten the door that com- 
municated with the wood-shed, and then all was still 
and dark. It was so still that she could hear the faint 
twitterings of the swallows away up in the eaves, and 
even the deep breathing of the oxen beneath her. She 
was wet and chilled, but she soon grew warm in her 
nest in the hay. “I like being in so much company,” 
she thought. “ It is better than being all alone at 
home. But I ought not to have stayed, although it 
would have been a pity to miss that bear. The rags 
are not much wet, and they won’t be hurt, anyway; 
but I am afraid the feather-dusters are spoiled.” And 
Dilly reckoned, with a troubled mind, the value of her 
feather-dusters. Times w^re going to be hard with 
her for a little while, she expected. “ I won’t mind 


FLYING HILL FARM. 


181 


going a little short, if only I ain’t beholden to any- 
body. I’m goin’ to work like a beaver, for if ever I 
should get to be town’s poor — I couldn’t stand that, 
nohow.” 

And then Dilly said her prayers, or rather, she said 
all she could remember of a hymn which Louy Bum- 
pus, Cally’s sister, who had lived out as nursery-maid 
in Springfield, had repeated to her. One of her small 
charges had said it every night, Louy said, and as soon 
as Dilly heard it she began to say it every night — to 
be “like folks.” Poor Dilly! It was only gradually 
that she had come to find a grain of comfort in it. 
Since her new trouble about her father these were the 
words that Dilly said oftenest: 

“For all the poor, the sick, the sad, 

The sinful unto Thee we call.” 

One might pray for very bad people — that was a com- 
fort. She had always felt, vaguely, that her father was 
not honest as she was. He had always told her false- 
hoods, which jarred upon her. She wondered now how 
she could have been so deceived about his illness. He 
had not been a good father, but Dilly’s heart was full 
of pity for him. 

“For all the poor, the sick, the sad, 

The sinful unto Thee we call; 

Oh, may thy mercy make us glad, 

Thou art our Jesus and our all. 

Through life’s long day — ” 

And then Dilly’s breathing grew as regular as the 
oxen’s, and she slipped away into soft and dreamless 
sleep. 

When Rhoda had taken out her ribbon-box in great 
haste to find a fresh ribbon for Garibaldi, she had left 


182 


FLYING HILL FARM. 


the box, contrary to her usual habits, in great disor- 
der — a trifle, but from such trifles important happen- 
ings often come. If she had put it carefully in or- 
der, and shut her drawer upon it, the peace that had 
settled upon Flying Hill Farm for the night might 
have remained undisturbed. 

For Rhoda was tired and sleepy; and although a 
vague idea had crossed her mind, it might and prob- 
ably would have faded peacefully into oblivion if the 
sight of those many-hued ribbons had not suddenly 
revived it. 

“I haven’t a bit of pink silk, not a single bit,” she 
said to herself, “ and nothing else will be half so pret- 
ty for that screen. I want my things for the fair to 
be prettier than the other girls’. Every one will ex- 
pect it, because I do so much fancy-work, and I shall 
be mortified if they’re not. A bit of Kitty Wallace’s 
bridesmaid dress would be just the thing. It was the 
loveliest shade I ever saw. I wish I had asked her for 
a piece before she went abroad ; but I suppose Miss 
Sibley had all the pieces, for she never sends them home. 
“To think of having a Byerly dress-maker make those 
lovely silks! But it’s just like Dr. Wallace’s ideas. 
Pink would be just the color to go with that silver fringe. 
Dolly Fiske is making a blue screen. I can’t use that 
old blue silk that Aunt Adam gave me on that ac- 
count. It isn’t a pretty shade, either. I wouldn’t ask 
that girl to give me a piece ! I couldn’t, anyway, 
after she was so rude to me, although I suppose she 
will sell all the pieces for rags. Of course they would 
be of no use to her. I wish I had asked Cherry to get 
a piece for me. She wouldn’t have minded asking a 
favor of Dilly Gage, as I should. I wonder how early 
she will come for her horse and wagon in the morn- 
ing? As soon as it’s daylight, I suppose; and I sha’n’t 


FLYING IIILL FARM. 


183 


be awake unless I lie awake all night. I might go and 
wake Tildy, and ask her to call me; but, then, I should 
have such a time to wake Cherry, she’s such a sleepy- 
head, and she’s apt to be cross when she’s sleepy, too. 
And I should hate to ask her, anyway, because I’ve 
always disapproved of her having so much to say to 
Dilly Gage. Her wagon is in the barn. I might go 
down and find a piece of the pink silk for myself in 
her rag-bags. It is not quite proper to meddle with 
other people’s possessions, even Dilly Gage’s ; but, then, 
rags are different from anything else. She would nev- 
er know it, and never be a bit the worse off for my 
taking it. I might manage to give her a little some- 
thing through Cherry: that would certainly make it 
right.” Rhoda opened her door a little, and put her 
head out and listened. “I must wait until the house 
is quiet. The boys will be late in getting to bed to- 
night. I shouldn’t wonder if Phonse were out hunting 
for that horrid pig; it would be just like him.” 

Rhoda sat down in her little chintz - covered arm- 
chair by the window, but found she was so sleepy that 
it would not do to be so comfortable; so she sat bolt- 
upright upon the bed, and visions of a beautiful pink 
silk silver-fringed screen floated before her. Should 
she paint field daisies upon it, or wild roses ? That silk 
of Kitty Wallace’s dress was an exquisite cameo pink; 
the wild roses would show to perfection upon it. She 
could not paint as well as Emma Erskine ; that was a 
drawback; but, then, Emma Erskine would probably 
have no such silk as that to paint upon. It was not to 
be found in Chelmsboro’s shops. She might have gone 
to Miss Sibley and asked for a piece of it, if she had 
only known that she had some pieces. Well, after all, 
this was but a trifling thing to do— to take a piece of 
waste silk out of a rag-bag, and ” — a bright idea sud- 


184 


FLYING HILL FAEM. 


denly struck her — “ she would put a piece of silk into 
the bag in its place — a piece of the blue silk that Aunt 
Adam had given her. Then, if Dilly Gage should wish 
to use the silk instead of selling it as rags, that would 
do just as well for her. 

Having soothed her conscience in this way, Rhoda 
had no misgivings left except those slight ones which 
were connected with the “ pokerishness ” of the barn 
in the night. But she had a strength of purpose which 
was not likely to give way before so slight an obstacle 
as that. She was not like Dilly Gage, who admitted 
that she was “scairt,” but refused to give way to it. 
It was Rhoda’s way to declare to herself that she was 
not in the least afraid, because there was nothing to be 
afraid of, and by these different methods of reasoning 
she and Dilly Gage arrived at the same results ; they 
were never what Simmy called, with stout-hearted scorn 
(in broad daylight), “ ’f raid-cats.” 

It seemed to Rhoda that the house would never grow 
quiet. As often as she put her head out at the door 
she could hear some one moving about, or see a glim- 
mer of light through the chink under some door. She 
grew drowsy, and at length fell asleep with her cheek 
resting on the cold brass railing of her bed. Awaking 
with a start, and the troubled consciousness that there 
was something she was leaving undone, she found that 
the hands of her little silver watch were pointing to 
two o’clock. It was quite startling to be up and 
dressed at two o’clock in the morning ! Evening en- 
tertainments were of rare occurrence, and early hours 
the rule at Flying Hill Farm. The house was still 
enough now. The nibbling of a mouse in the wall 
made Rhoda jump. That great barn would be a 
“pokerish” place at this hour. She cast a longing 
glance at her comfortable little bed, and half resolved 


FLYING HILL FARM. 


185 


to forego her solitary trip to the barn ; but a vision of 
a pink silk screen — cameo pink, the loveliest shade that 
ever was seen, the admiration and envy of all the girls — 
floated again before her eyes and overcame her sleepi- 
ness and nervous fears. There was no time to lose ; 
the summer dawn came so early, and Philander was 
stirring as soon as the first cock crew. 

Taking a small brass hand -lamp to light her way, 
Rhoda stole softly down -stairs. The early morning 
air was chilly, and as she passed through the hall she 
caught Cherry’s plaid “peasant” cape from the nail 
where it hung and threw it over her. All the stairs 
creaked under her careful steps, as stairs will creak 
when one wishes to make no noise, an.^the wood-shed 
was full of startling echoes, that never, to Rhoda’s 
knowledge, had lived there before. And when she 
pushed the great bolt of the door that led into the 
barn it made such a noise that she waited, in conster- 
nation, to discover whether it had aroused the house- 
hold. 

Her little lamp failed to put to rout the darkness of 
the great barn. Its feeble beams seemed only to show 
how great was the darkness, and to start grewsome 
shadows out of every corner. Rhoda’s heart beat 
quickly. She doubted for a moment whether the pre- 
cious cameo silk was worth so many unpleasant feel- 
ings. But now that she had come she certainly was 
not going back without it. There was the tin-wagon, 
with its great rag-bags hanging on behind ; it would 
be an easy matter to explore them. The advent of the 
light began to create a little stir in the barn. The 
sleepy cattle turned their heads to look, and Tam the 
pony whinnied a recognition of the fact that it must be 
breakfast -time. It shone through the chink of the 
barn into the poultry-house, and the pert little bantam 


186 


FLYING HILL FARM. 


rooster, whose aim in life was to give the first signal 
of morning, set up a shrill cockadoodle-do. 

“ Oh, if he only would keep still ! He’ll be sure to 
wake Philander,” murmured Rhoda, rummaging with 
trembling fingers in the rag-bag. 

If the bantam did not wake Philander he certainly 
did wake some one else. Hilly Gage, whose snug cor- 
ner of the hay-loft adjoined the poultry- house, started 
up at the sound of the shrill crow, and becoming con- 
scious that there was a light in the barn, was filled 
wdth consternation that she should have overslept until 
it was morning, and Philander had come to milk the 
cows. No w she might not be able to slip away unob- 
served, as she had planned, so that they would think 
when she appeared to claim her horse and wagon that 
she had stayed at Mrs. Sally Pitkins’s. It seemed to 
foolish Hilly almost the worst thing that could have 
befallen her that any one should discover that she had 
been such a coward (that was what she called herself) 
as to turn back because of the darkness and the light- 
ning. 

She crept softly along towards the edge of the loft, 
letting the hay rustle just as little as possible, until 
she could look over into the barn floor. 

“My sakes!” thought Hilly, and she was so very 
much astonished that she almost thought it aloud. 

Rhoda had pulled over all the contents of one bag 
without finding a bit of the pink silk ; she had been 
obliged to take some of the rags out upon the floor in 
order to make a thorough search, and wisps of hay 
had become mingled with them, so that it was almost 
as hard work as patient Griselda had with her feathers 
to separate them. She felt vexed with Philander for 
not keeping the barn floor clean, forgetting that the 
gallery spectators had tossed the hay down, and Phi- 



“dilly crept softly along towards the edge of the loft until 

SHE COULD LOOK OYER INTO THE BARN FLOOR,” 














FLYING HILL FARM. 


187 


lander had thought it too late to sweep when the Great 
Exhibition came to an end. 

“What can Cherry Eastman want in my rag-bags?” 
said Dilly to herself, so overcome with astonishment 
that she was in great danger of forgetting that she 
must not rustle. Rhoda’s back was turned towards 
her, and she recognized the cape as Cherry’s, having 
often seen her wear it. “She needn’t have took the 
trouble to come out here in the dark like this. I’d 
have given her anything she wanted, and been glad 
enough that I had it to give. She’s havin’ an orfle 
hard time. I’d like to holler out and tell her it ain’t a 
mite of matter if some hay does get into the bags 
’mong the rags. There ! she hain’t found what she 
w T anted, and if she ain’t goin’ at the other bag ! My 
land ! what an orfle rustlin’ I made then ! Seems as if 
she must have heard it.” 

But Rhoda had at last come upon a piece of the 
coveted pink silk, and was oblivious, for the moment, 
of everything else. 

“ I declare I couldn’t stand it to see anybody in this 
livin’ world but jest Cherry Eastman a-rummagin’ in 
my rag-bags like that. Well, if it ain’t a piece of that 
silk that she wanted ! She ’pears to be satisfied now. 
And if she ain’t puttin’ a piece of silk out of her pock- 
et into the bag in place of it — a bigger piece than 
what she took out ! There ! I come as nigh hollerin’ 
out to her that she needn’t have done that ! How 
she’s hurryin’ to fix them bags up again just as they 
was before! What’s the matter? Seems as if she 
was scairt. She didn’t hear me rustlin’ then, for I was 
as still as a mouse.” 

It was a noise at one of the great outer doors which 
had startled Rhoda. She listened intently ; it might 
have been the wind. But it came again— a shaking 


188 


FLYING HILL FARM. 


of the door, which must have been done with hands. 
As she gazed at the door the great handle turned 
slowly. 

Rhoda caught up her lamp from the floor where she 
had set it and ran. 

“ Beats all what scairt her,” soliloquized Dilly, lean- 
ing out over the loft, but unable to see the door, which, 
in fact, had now ceased to move. 

“ It don’t seem a mite like Cherry Eastman, anyhow. 
Why couldn’t she say she wanted a piece of that silk 
when I was tellin’ her that I had it? I b’lieve I’m 
dreamin’, it seems so queer. But I’ve give myself an 
orfle pinch, and I hain’t woke up. Mebbe folks gets 
light-headed sleepin’ in barns. I’ll creep back again, 
anyhow. I don’t expect it’s much more ’n the middle 
of the night.” 

Dilly crept back accordingly to her nest in the hay, 
and soon fell fast asleep again. The bantam rooster 
decided that he must have made a mistake, since he 
had never known the sun to go to bed again after it 
once got up, and he hurried back to his roost lest he 
should be jeered at by the old roosters. Footsteps 
might have been heard to retreat softly from the 
barn door. Rhoda had gone hurriedly to bed, her 
heart beating like a drum in her ears. No one knew 
of the wisp of hay which, caught in a crevice at the 
side of a stall, had overhung the chimney of Rhoda’s 
lamp until it had crisped and shrivelled, and then red- 
dened to the hue of a live coal ; and then, suddenly, 
fanned by the current of air from the door as Rhoda 
went out, it had leaped into a tiny thread of flame. 


FLYING IIILL FARM. 


189 


CHAPTER XVII. 

Ben had prophesied to Simmy Backup, the very last 
thing that night, that Phonse would “ have that pig on 
his mind.” And Ben was right. Phonse had looked 
all about the garden and in every available hiding-place 
for a distracted pig, in the lightning and the rain, but 
all in vain. “ If they would have, let him be a pig of 
course it wouldn’t matter so much ; he could take care 
of himself. But now they have got him into such a 
condition that he doesn’t know anything, and because 
he couldn’t do what they wanted him to do when he 
was frightened to death, they don’t care what becomes 
of him !” he said to himself, indignantly. Phonse went 
to bed, and although Garibaldi’s wrongs lay heavily 
upon his heart, he also went to sleep. He awoke in the 
night, or, rather, at almost two o’clock in the morn- 
ing, and looking out of his window saw that the rain 
had ceased, and the moon was struggling through the 
clouds. Down among the cabbages, in the field below 
the garden, he saw a white shape moving about. 

“ That’s Garibaldi! and he’ll spoil all Philander’s 
prize cabbages that he thinks so much of. They’ll find 
out that he’s a pig after all ! I’d better call Philan- 
der.” 

But on second thoughts Phonse decided to drive the 
pig out himself. Philander’s temper might be ruffled; 
it would be apt to try the best of dispositions to be 
obliged to get up in the night to drive a pig out of the 
prize cabbages ; and Philander, who had been much 


190 


FLYING IIILL FARM. 


mortified by what he called “ that pesky pig,” might 
frighten or even hurt the poor beast that had already, 
in Phonse’s view, had more trials than a pig should 
ever be called upon to endure. So Phonse dressed 
himself hastily, and stole out of the house only a few 
minutes before Rhoda awoke. It was in fact his clos- 
ing of the outer door that had a weakened her from her 
light sleep, although she had been unconscious of any 
noise. 

Phonse went through the muddy garden paths, and 
then over the fence and through the wet grass, only to 
find that the white shape which he had taken for Gari- 
baldi was a newspaper, blowing about. 

“ Probably he has gone home to his own barn,” 
thought Phonse, “ but I’ll just look about our barn 
and the pigsty a little while, and then I’ll go back to 
bed.” 

As Phonse approached the barn he saw through the 
windows a faint light. Was Philander there, with his 
lantern, at this hour? Had some of the Japanese lan- 
terns been left by accident ? Tramps and burglars 
were unknown to Byerly, but it had been prophesied 
that they would come with the railroad. It occurred 
to Phonse as a possibility that one or the other was 
making his first appearance in their barn. He listened 
and heard no sound, and then he shook the door to dis- 
cover whether it was fastened. Then he applied his 
eye to the great key-hole; the key was turned so that 
a tiny space was left open, and, directly in range, was a 
girl’s figure stooping over the rag-bags. 

“ That Dilly Gage!” said Phonse to himself. “ What 
can she be doing with her rags at this time of night ? 
Pulling them out so that they will dry, probably. But 
how does she happen to be here ? They said she went 
over to old Mrs. Pitkin s’s to spend the night. She must 


FLYING II1LL FARM. 


191 


have thought better of it and come back, but they 
should have made her come into the house; that barn 
isn’t a fit place for a girl to stay in all alone.” 

It did not once occur to Phonse that the girl could 
be any other than Dilly Gage, since she was emptying 
Dilly Gage’s rag-bags. 

He turned towards the house with all thoughts of 
Garibaldi driven from his mind. 

“ That girl is always a trouble,” he reflected. “ I 
don’t think it is at all a proper thing to have her 
prowling about that barn in the night; she might set 
something on fire. I wonder what she had for a light. 
Philander always carries the lanterns into th& house. 
Perhaps I had better go and look again. 

Phonse went back, but all was dark and still in the 
barn. And when he returned he was just too late to 
see Rhoda’s light from the windows as she flew through 
the house. 

“ Dilly Gage has probably gone to sleep on the hay,” 
thought Phonse, arriving at one correct conclusion in 
spite of his mistake. 

He returned to his bed, and while he was still reflect- 
ing upon Cherry’s foolish perversity in believing that a 
girl from the Roaring Brook settlement could be “ made 
anything of,” he fell asleep. The tiny thread of flame 
flickered and wavered and seemed upon the point of 
going out, until, suddenly, it reached some loose hay 
that was hanging from the loft ; then in an instant the 
slender thread became a thousand threads, a leaping 
flame ! It was on Dilly’s side of the loft, but Dilly was 
in the farthest corner. Now it was running swiftly 
along towards her, and a dense suffocating smoke was 
filling the barn. Dilly still slept, but she dreamed that 
Roaring Brook was rising — the danger that they always 
dreaded— and its waters had rushed in at her window 


192 


FLYING IIILL FARM. 


and over her bed, and she was drowning, and could not 
make one movement to escape. She wished vaguely 
that she had not forgotten to say the whole of her 
verse before she went to sleep, remembering, after the 
confused fashion of a dream when one is struggling to 
awake, that she had gone to sleep in the middle of it. 
Perhaps the water would not have risen if she had said 
it all: 

“Through life’s long day and death’s dark night 
Oh, gentle Jesus, be our light !” 

She was gasping for breath, the waters were going 
over her head ; she must break the bonds that bound 
her! She awoke with a blissful sense of relief, and 
sprang to her feet. But the terrible suffocating sensa- 
tion was no dream. A heavy black cloud of smoke 
shut her in, she could feel the heat of the flames that 
were sweeping towards her. To rush anywhere out of 
the smoke was Dilly’s first impulse, but she was not so 
terrified as to be bereft of her reasoning faculties. Dilly 
was possessed of some of the coolness of brain which 
is available in an emergency. To go forward was to 
fall off the loft. The smoke seemed less dense in that 
direction, but it would be hopeless to try to find the 
ladder. 

The opening into the stall below, through which she 
had come up, seemed the safer way of escape, if she 
could only find it in the blackness before her breath 
was gone. She groped upon her hands and knees ; 
here it was, nearer than she had hoped, and a faint 
glimmer of light showed her the window. She swung 
herself over the opening and kicked at the window 
with all her might. A blessed breath of air followed 
the breaking of the glass ; she tried to break the sash 
away but in vain. The heavy smoke rolled up in waves 


FLYING HILL FARM. 


193 


from below. It was now as dense on the floor of the 
barn as it was above. 

“ Oh, the poor creatures !” thought Dilly. “ If I 
could save any of them!” 

But to save her own life was the only possibility 
now, and that seemed but a doubtful one. She reach- 
ed out and caught at the broken sash, and clung to it 
with all her weight. It slipped down from the top, 
and with one last effort Dilly climbed out of the open- 
ing and dropped. She expected that she should be 
killed, but to escape from that torturing suffocation 
she must risk anything. She came down gently upon 
some soft hay. But the smoke pursued her; she could 
hear the crackling of flames near her. A noise of 
frightened, cackling hens told her that she was in the 
poultry-house, and she made her way blindly to the 
door, opened it, and rushed out in the midst of what 
seemed a whirlwind of wings. In her bewilderment 
she ran on; she could not feel sure that she was out of 
reach of the terrible fire. 

It was Philander who had first discovered that the 
barn was on fire. He could not tell what had awakened 
him, but declared his belief that it was “ a presenti- 
ment.” He smelled smoke and heard the crackling 
and roaring of the fire. Looking out of his window, 
he saw flames leaping out through the roof of the 
barn. 

Philander had strong lungs, and he made them serve 
him now. He screamed “Fire! fire!” to such purpose 
that the whole household was stirring in a moment. 
They heard the cry over at Deacon Backup’s, and Dr. 
Clinch, the little horse-doctor, heard it in his house at 
the foot of the hill, and it was not long before its echoes 
reached the village; and the new chemical engine, the 
pride and delight of Byerly boys, was on its way up 
13 


194 


FLYING HILL FARM. 


the hill — not long, but the fire was swift; it had made 
great headway before Philander had discovered it. 

They got the frightened animals out. Tam, the pony, 
wild with terror, rushed back into the fire and was res- 
cued with difficulty. The bear broke away from Ben 
and made a bee-line for the woods. Philander got the 
carriages out of the carriage-house, and moved Dilly 
Gage’s tin-wagon far out of reach of the fire. There 
were valuable tools in the tool-house, but that was a 
sheet of flame. The wind blew the flames towards the 
house, and already the roof of the wood-shed was on 
fire. Squire Brewster and Deacon Backup were up 
there with buckets of water. 

Uncle David had called out to Philander to let the 
barn go and try to save the house, when Phonse, who 
had been the last to appear, but had worked with a 
will to save the animals, rushed by Philander with a 
horror-stricken face and into the burning barn. 

“ Come back ! come back !” shouted Philander. 
“There ain’t anything livin’ there now, and you 
couldn’t save it if there was. If that pesky pig was 
there, why, he’s pork!” 

“ That girl, Dilly Gage, is there !” cried Phonse. 

“No, she ain’t; she went over acrost the field to old 
Miss Sally Pitkin’s.” 

“I tell you she’s there; I saw her there in the night! 
I think she’s up on the hay.” 

Phonse rushed through the blinding smoke to the 
ladder, and half-way up. Above him the hay-loft was 
in flames. The ladder wavered and fell, and burning 
beams came down with it. Philander, at the risk of 
his life, lifted Phonse from the burning ruins, and 
rushed with him into the air. 

“ That was jest as nigh as could be to throwin’ away 
your life,” he said, severely. “ I ain’t noways sure that 


FLYING HILL FARM. 


195 


that girl would be worth it if she w r as there, which 
she couldn’t be, noway, for I fastened the doors my- 
self last night, after I saw her go off acrost the field.” 

“Some way a fellow wouldn’t exactly expect that 
of Phonse,” Simmy Backup was confiding to Ben. 
“We’ve always thought he was — well, not exactly a 
’fraid cat, perhaps, but a sort of softy, you know.” 

“ Good land of nater ! there’s them fowls, that I 
clean forgot ! Nobody hain’t thought of them, poor 
creturs ! I b’lieve I be nigh about crazy,” cried Phi- 
lander, “but somebody’s opened the door, for there 
they be flyin’ out ! There’s somebody runnin’ away 
as fast as they can run !” 

Philander ran to a spot where the light of the fire 
fell full upon the retreating figure. “It’s a girl! It’s 
Dilly Gage !” he cried. “ Well, if I ain’t beat ! How 
came she here ?” 

But there was no time to talk or to wonder. Every 
one was pressed into service to protect the house, or to 
remove valuables to a place of safety. Loveday was 
dressing Phonse’s hands, which were badly burned, as 
well as she could, in the excitement. The fire had 
communicated to the back part of the house, but now 
the little chemical engine had arrived and was worked 
with a will. 

The fire was extinguished at length, and the main 
body of the house was saved, but the ell and one wing 
were gone. It was a dreary ruin that the cheerful 
morning sun looked down upon, and a family that felt 
homeless and forlorn gathered in the sitting-room, 
which was filled with a hopeless confusion of things 
saved from the ruins, chiefly in a water-soaked condi- 
tion. It was evident that Uncle David felt his loss 
keenly, although he said more than once that he was 
thankful that so much was saved. And Loveday talked 


19 G 


FLYING HILL FARM. 


cheerfully about Providence, but with a lump in her 
throat. 

Ben and Simmy Backup had gone in search of the 
bear, accompanied by Mr. Pringle, his, keeper, who had 
appeared at the barn in a state of great anxiety before 
the fire was extinguished, He evidently blamed him- 
self very much for intrusting the bear to the boys’ 
keeping, and the latter learned that Captain Jack pos- 
sessed a money value which seemed to them extraordi- 
narily large. 

“ I thought of fetch in’ him away after you got 
through with him last night,” said Mr. Pringle, who 
had witnessed the Great Exhibition from a reserved 
seat. “ But it was rainin’ so hard, and I calc’lated 
that he’d be full as safe and comfortable in your barn 
as he would down to the hotel in the village, where 
there wa’n’t anything but a shed to put him in. Oh, I 
expect we shall find him,” he added, in response to 
Ben’s confident assurance. “But, I tell you, there ain’t 
nothin’ like a scare to bring out wild beast nater !” 

Garibaldi had been found in a very draggled condi- 
tion, and minus his scarlet ribbon at the door of his 
own barn, and Simmy, with melancholy firmness, had 
consigned him to the sty with the other pigs ! 

Phonse was forgetting the pain of his burns in 
mourning over the burning of his pigeon-houses and 
the flight of his pigeons, which had gone no one knew 
whither, and the homelessness of the swallows that had 
lived in the eaves of the barn. He received with an 
impatient frown any reference to his efforts to save 
Dilly Gage at the risk of his own life. 

“I must say Phonse has surprised me,” remarked 
Uncle David, when Phonse had left the room. “ I 
wouldn’t have believed that it was in him to do so 
brave a thing as that.” 


FLYING HILL FARM. 


197 


“I expect there’s more to Phonse than anybody 
knows of,” said Loveday. “ And what with one thing 
and another happenin’ this summer, what there is in 
him has been cornin’ out fast.” 

Phonse had gone out to look for Corny Buttercup, 
the yellow kitten, who always preferred the barn to 
her cretonne-lined basket in the sitting-room. Phonse 
feared that she had been burned in the barn, but Cher- 
ry was of the opinion that her objection to the bear 
had driven her away. And Cherry’s opinion was soon 
proved to be the correct one, by the discovery of Corny 
Buttercup sitting on the blackened ruins of the porch, 
mewing piteously. 

“ Oli, isn’t it horrid, Corny?” said Cherry, sympathet- 
ically, as she carried the cat in her arms into the sit- 
ting-room. “I know I feel just as a cat does about 
familiar places. To think that we shall never sit on 
that porch under the hop-vine again !” 

“ We shall have a new porch, and a new vine,” said 
Rhoda. She was looking pale and hollow-eyed, but no 
one thought that strange after the excitement of the 
fire. 

“And the dear old kitchen, where we’ve made cara- 
mels and corn-balls, and I put nitre instead of vanilla 
into my first pudding ! I shall always think that Ben 
changed the bottles on purpose. And Philander has 
told such lovely stories ; I remember the very first even- 
ing he was here, and when we were so little we used to 
quarrel for turns to heat the poker for grandpa’s mug 
of cider.” 

“ And Rhoda always had the most turns,” said 
Phonse, who was stroking the kitten into a state of 
serenity. 

“We shall have a new kitchen — a better one,” said 
Rhoda, ignoring Phonse’s accusation. 


198 


FLYING HILL FARM. 


“ And the peacock room over the kitchen,” pursued 
Cherry. “ I loved those peacocks on the paper ; and 
the closet with the yellow curtain where we kept the 
bags of nuts, and the ‘rising -sun’ bedquilt that we 
all cried to have over us when we had the measles ! 
Oh, it is too much that the rising -sun bedquilt is 
burned !” 

“That was a dreadfully funny, old-fashioned look- 
ing room. Angie Wallace laughed at it the night I had 
my birthday party,” said Rhoda. 

“ I think it was a beautiful room,” said Cherry. “And 
the back stairs are gone, with the pictures that we 
pasted on where the paper was torn — ” 

“ They looked dreadfully shabby. I think it will be 
ever so much better to have things new and stylish,” 
said Rhoda. 

“ Shabby or not, it was all home ; we never, never 
can get it back again !” cried Cherry. “ And that 
lovely old barn ! I can’t trust myself to think of 
that.” 

“ It wasn’t in keeping with the house,” said Rhoda. 
“ It wasn’t even painted the same color. I was always 
ashamed of it. It looked so badly when one first came 
in sight of the farm.” 

“ Oh, what does paint matter?” cried Cherry. “You 
can’t paint good times ! But you could see and feel 
them all over that barn ! I loved it ugly.” 

“ I like to have things handsome and new and — and 
like other people’s,” insisted Rhoda. (In spite of the dif- 
ference between them, Rhoda and Dilly Gage thought 
alike about some things.) “But I’m sorry that it will 
cost so much to rebuild; will it cost so very much, 
papa?” 

Rhoda’s smooth brow was ruffled with anxiety, as no 
one had ever seen it. 


FLYING HILL FARM. 


199 


Her father did not answer. His face wore an impa- 
tient frown as lie paced up and down through the 
room and the great hall that ran through the house. 
“ I’ll tell you what it is, dear,” said Loveday, when he 
was out of hearing. “The insurance had just run out. 
I know, because I heard him say to Deacon Backup yes- 
terday that he must attend to it. ’Twa’n’t like the squire 
to neglect a thing like that, and I expect he blames 
himself. That’s why he don’t like to say much about 
it. He’s had a sight of business troubles, what with 
the railroad and all, and I expect that’s what made him 
forget the insurance. What’s puzzlin’ me is how ever 
it come to get afire ! Philander’s so cautious that I 
can’t never believe but what he left everything safe 
there. There’s every one of them Japanese lanterns 
up in the hall closet, where I put ’em when he fetched 
’em in last night, and not one of ’em is so much as 
scorched. I heard folks sayin’ it might have been 
them ; but it couldn’t have been, anyhow.” 

Rhoda said nothing. She wondered why she had 
heard no more questionings as to the origin of the fire. 
She had a guilty feeling that some one must suspect 
that she had been in the barn with a lamp. She re- 
membered that there had been hay about on the floor 
and hanging from the loft near the place where she 
had set her lamp, and she had heard Deacon Backup 
say that the ^fire must have caught or been set long 
after the show was over, because it was not discov- 
ered until after half-past two o’clock, and it could 
not have smouldered among such inflammable mate- 
rial all that time. She felt almost certain that her 
lamp had set the fire. She had felt so nervous and 
hurried that she had been careless in tossing the wisps 
of hay about as she picked them out of the rags. She 
had not once thought of the danger of fire. Was it her 


200 


FLYING HILL FARM. 


duty to tell what she had done? It could make no dif- 
ference now. And it was only an accident. She had 
been careless, but that was not a crime that one need 
to confess it. And it would be very unpleasant to ex- 
plain why she had gone to the barn. “A fair exchange 
was no robbery,” according to one of Loveday’s favor- 
ite proverbs, but to help herself out of Dilly Gage’s 
rag -bags was, as she knew she would have said, if 
Cherry had been the author of the mischief, “not at 
all a nice thing to do.” And Rhoda had an extreme 
sensitiveness to blame. Was not she the proper and 
well-behaved one who always felt a right to blame the 
others ? It seemed quite incongruous ; it was unen- 
durable to Rhoda that she should be to blame. 

If Philander should be accused of carelessness, then it 
might be her duty to acknowledge what she had done, 
or if any one should be suspected of setting the fire; but 
otherwise Rhoda decided that she might keep silence 
as to her possible share in the matter. And, after all, 
it was only a possible share ; probably it could never be 
known with certainty what had caused the fire. Most 
people had seemed to regard it as a natural result of 
the show; some had shaken their heads wisely, and said 
they wondered at the time that Squire Brewster should 
have allowed those boys to have Japanese lanterns there 
where there was so much hay. Her secret was quite 
safe, thought Rhoda. Even if Dilly Gage should dis- 
cover that she had a piece of blue silk in her bag in- 
stead of pink, which was very unlikely, she would nev- 
er guess how the exchange had been effected. She had 
felt a little uneasy about the noise she had heard at the 
barn door — it had sounded so very much like footsteps — 
but now she had concluded that it was possible that she 
had been deceived by her nervous fears. That great 
barn had been an uncanny place in the dead of the 


FLYING IIILL FARM. 


201 


night ; a piece of pink silk, even though it were cameo 
pink, was scarcely worth what she had gone through to 
obtain it, to say nothing of the fire. But then she 
might have heard footsteps. Some incendiary might 
have been lurking about even then. It was really not 
very likely that she was to blame for the fire. 

When she had reasoned herself into this belief- the 
color began to come back to Rhoda’s face, and she 
could assent with some heartiness to the suggestion 
with which Cherry was trying to console herself, that 
“it was going to be some fun, anyway, to go to Bea- 
con Backup’s to breakfast.” Philander came and stood 
outside the window, resting his folded arms upon the 
sill. Philander was apt to do this when he had some- 
thing important to communicate to Squire Brewster. 

“ Beats all how Billy Gage got back into that barn 
last night! She was possessed to go over to Mis’ Sally 
Pitkin’s. Nothin’ wouldn’t stop her. I see her a-scud- 
din’ over the field; I expect it was just another one of 
their tricks ! They’re an awful lot and no mistake, 
them Gages: she must have slipped in there just as 
quick as folks turned their backs; we wa’n’t more’n 
half an hour a-gettin’ things to rights, and then I 
locked the doors ; there wa’n’t a nook nor a cranny 
that she could have crept in by after that.” 

Phonse dropped Corny Buttercup and started to his 
feet, as if struck by a sudden idea. 

“I saw her there in the night ! It was about two 
o’clock. I thought I saw Garibaldi in the cabbages, 
and I went out. I saw a light in the barn and I looked 
through the key-hole. She was doing something with 
her rag-bags. She had a light. I went back to see 
what kind of a light it was, but the barn was all dark 
then.” 

Philander had pursed up his lips in a long whistle. 


202 


FLYING HILL FARM. 


“ That’s just what I thought, only I wa’n’t a-goin’ to 
say it without more proof !” he said, in a triumphant 
tone. 

“ Say what, Philander ?” It was Rhoda who said it, 
in a faint voice. 

“ It was Dilly Gage that sot the barn a-fire !” said 
Philander. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

“ Dilly Gage sot the barn afire, and she come slink- 
in’ back there after she’d made believe she was goin’ 
over to Mis’ Sally Pitkin’s, on purpose to do it!” contin- 
ued Philander. “Ain’t it just what might be expected of 
them Gages? Ain’t they got a spite against the squire, 
and more partickerley since ’twas our folks that found 
’em out? They’re just as ignorant as savages, them 
Roarin’ Brook folks, and that girl is a reg’lar limb.” 

“But her horse and wagon were there, Philander,” 
said Squire Brewster. “ I don’t think it likely that she 
would have sacrificed everything she had in the world 
to spite us.” 

Philander took off his hat and ran his fingers through 
his hair until it stood upright. This was the way in 
which Philander always showed great perplexity. 

“ I ain’t a-goin’ to say that I didn’t let that horse of 
hers out,” he said, “ for I didn’t more’n half know what 
I was about when I tore in through the smoke after 
them creturs. I ain’t a-goin’ to say that I didn’t, but 
the first I see of him he was ’way down to the end of the 
south medder. I never see him ’mong the other horses ! 
I jest run ’em into the paster, and there they stayed. 
He might have jumped the fence; I ain’t a-goin’ to say 
he didn’t. They was all of ’em scairt enough to do it. 


FLYING HILL FARM. 


203 


It’s my idee that she let him out herself before the fire 
broke out. And as for her wagon, she’s got a terrible 
short stock of tin-ware on it. I ain’t a-goin’ to say 
nothin’ more’n what can be proved, but I never see so 
little on that tin-wagon as I see this mornin’. And 
what was she runnin’ away for, like all possessed ? She 
sent one of them Bumpus boys after her team. She 
never told him she’d been in the barn. She never told 
him but what she’d been to home all night. She just 
told him that she left her horse and wagon here be- 
cause ’twas rainin’ hard. He said she looked awful 
pale, and said she wa’n’t able to come up here her- 
self.” 

Philander had told his story with an eager haste 
that bore down all interruption. Cherry had uttered 
several indignant protests. Rhoda felt herself growing 
red and white by turns, and was glad that no one ob- 
served her. Uncle David continued his monotonous 
pacing, but listened intently. Loveday stood in the 
door- way with her arms akimbo, and occasionally said, 
“ Well, I never !” in evident acceptance of Philander’s 
theory. 

It was very trying to Cherry that although Loveday 
had so keen an insight into character where their own 
family circle was concerned, and confidently believed 
that the good in every one of them was strong enough 
to get the better of the bad, she never would believe 
any good of Dilly Gage. “ When you’ve lived as long 
as I have, dearie,” she would say, “ you’ll know how 
little dependence can be put on them Roarin’ Brook 
folks.” Every one was going to believe, Cherry thought, 
with indignant wonder, that Dilly Gage was bad enough 
to do such a terrible thing as that. But no ! — 

“I can’t really believe the girl. did it,” said Uncle 
David. “ But it is certainly a queer piece of business. 


204 


FLYING IIILL FARM. 


I don’t understand what she can have been doing with 
a light in the barn at two o’clock in the morning.” 

“ She seemed to be pulling over her rags. There was 
a heap of them on the barn floor,” said Phonse. 

“You should have awakened some one and told of 
it,” said Uncle David. “ You know that no one but 
Philander is ever allowed to have a light in the barn.” 

“ It was out in a minute or two,” said Phonse. 
“And everything was as quiet as could be.” 

“ Could anything — w T ould anything be done to her for 
it?” Rhoda asked, in a voice that trembled in spite of 
her strong effort to keep it steady. 

“I don’t know how you can believe such things!” 
cried Cherry, tumultuously. “ Dilly never did it, nev- 
er ! She would no more do such a thing than — than 
Rhoda would !” 

Cherry had almost said “ than /would,” but had used 
Rhoda’s name instead, as representing virtue much more 
strongly. 

“ I don’t know why you should say that,” faltered 
Rhoda, looking startled. “ I am sure no one would 
think of my setting a fire — on purpose. It’s quite 
absurd to compare me to Dilly Gage in that way.” 

“No one ought to think of Dilly Gage’s doing it,” 
said Cherry, stoutly. 

“Z don’t think she did it,” said Rhoda, but with a 
little hesitation. “Will she be accused of it? Could 
it be proved that she did it, do you think ?” Rhoda’s 
questions were not answered, for at that moment good 
Deacon Backup appeared at the door, with a cheerful 
remonstrance at their delay, and the information that 
the coffee and the cakes were being spoiled by waiting. 
It seemed strange that there was a cheerful morning 
world of coffee and cakes wagging on its accustomed 
way. Rhoda said she thought she would not go to 


FLYING HILL FARM. 


205 


Deacon Backup’s ; she didn’t care for any breakfast. 
Her father insisted, however; people could not be al- 
lowed to make themselves ill in these trying times, he 
said. Would they talk about Dilly Gage and the prob- 
able cause of the fire all breakfast-time ? Rhoda felt 
as if she could not endure it. 

Kindly Mrs. Backup had got out her best china, used 
only on state occasions, and with all the delicacies she 
could think of had done her best to give a cheerful air 
to the breakfast; but with all her pains she was not 
very successful. Uncle David was not a man who re- 
sponded very readily to sympathy, or who knew how 
to disguise his feelings; perhaps with such good friends 
and neighbors he did not feel it to be necessary to do 
the latter. Cherry chattered as if she had been brought 
up in ignorance of the old adage that children should 
be seen and not heard, although, in truth, grandma, in 
her time, had enforced it faithfully. She felt a nerv- 
ous eagerness to keep the conversation from turning to 
the subject of that dreadful suspicion about Dilly Gage. 
It was no matter what any one thought of her, if she 
could keep them from talking about Dilly Gage and 
her possible connection with the fire. Uncle David 
would not do it, she thought, nor Phonse, but it would 
be just like Rhoda; and Lizy Ann, the hired girl who 
waited upon the table, was a great gossip. 

If she had known that Rhoda was even more anxious 
than she to avoid that subject, Cherry would have 
found more of a flavor in coffee and cakes and lamb- 
chops. Mrs. Backup was worrying, in hospitable By- 
erly fashion, because Rhoda could not eat. 

“ Rhoda looks as if she felt it more than any of you,” 
she said. “I never thought you were so delicate, 
Rhoda.” 

“It was such a dreadful thing, you know,” Cherry 


206 


FLYING HILL FARM. 


broke in, with her nervous haste. “ I suppose fashion- 
able city people would care very little about losing 
their kitchen and their stables, but to us they were the 
very homeiest part. Rhoda thinks she shall like new 
things, but she’ll find that the new barn won’t have the 
old high beam in it that she walked across when Jacky 
Batterson dared her. Such a little thing as she was, 
but just as determined /” 

Uncle David interrupted Cherry’s chatter by asking 
Deacon Backup his opinion about plans and workmen 
for the new ell and barn, which must be begun as soon 
as the ruins could be cleared away. 

At one moment Rhoda assured herself that nothing 
more would be said about Dilly Gage in connection 
with the fire, and then, as she tried to believe, no harm 
would have been done to her. At another moment she 
thought that Philander, whose voice could be heard 
from the kitchen, where Lizy Ann was regaling him 
with hot coffee, was telling her all his suspicions. 
Everybody in Byerly would know all about it soon. 
Dilly Gage would be arrested and tried, perhaps sen- 
tenced to prison. Oh, why had she not acknowledged 
at first that it was she whom Phonse had seen in the 
barn? Then it would have been comparatively easy; 
it would have been mortifying, and she would have 
been blamed; that had seemed unendurable then. Now 
every one would know that she had hesitated; that she 
had preferred to have Dilly Gage suspected of a crime 
rather than to admit that she had taken liberties with 
Dilly Gage’s rag-bags, and had been careless. 

Rhoda’s nerves were tried by the excitements of the 
night; with this struggle of conscience added to them, 
she began to feel as if she were in a feverish dream; 
the green roses of the wall-paper, the pattern of the 
table-cloth, the little purple wheels upon Mrs. Backup’s 


FLYING HILL FARM. 207 

cambric dress, seemed to her for long afterwards like 
objects seen in a nightmare. 

It was a relief when Simmy and Ben came bursting 
in, fresh from their search for the bear, and relating 
their adventures in chorus. They had found Captain 
Jack in the Roaring Brook woods, apparently making 
for the old logging-camp, where he had before found 
refuge. He had greeted them with demonstrations of 
joy, and had allowed them to lead him back until they 
came in sight of the ruins of the barn. Then he had 
broken away from them in terror, and it had been dif- 
ficult to recapture him. When at last they succeeded 
Mr. Pringle took charge of him, and was to take him 
back to Belford by the road that led along the foot of 
Tumble Down Hill. 

“He said he didn’t mind going that roundabout 
way,” explained Ben, “because he wanted to call on 
Dilly Gage. She was a favorite of his when she was 
little. She was ‘ as good as gold,’ and ( as smart as a 
steel trap,’ and had had an orfle hard time. He said 
you couldn’t make him believe that she knew what her 
scamp of a father was up to.” 

Cherry drew a long sigh of satisfaction. 

“I knew that Mr. Pringle was a nice man the mo- 
ment I saw him,” she said. 

“Those Roaring Brook people are clannish. They 
always stand by each other,” said Uncle David. 

“But Mr. Pringle isn’t a Roaring Brook person at 
all,” cried Cherry. “ He lived for a little while at the 
foot of Tumble Down Hill, on the other side of the 
bridge.” 

Uncle David took no notice whatever of this com- 
munication. 

“I pity that Dilly Gage,” said good Mrs. Backup. 
“She can never have had any good influences. She 


208 


FLYING HILL FARM. 


must be very shrewd for so young a girl, or she could 
not have helped her father carry out his deceit.” * 

“ She didn’t,” said Cherry. “ He deceived her as 
well as other people. She was as surprised as could be, 
and felt awfully when he was found out.” 

“ Cherry is Dilly Gage’s avowed champion,” said 
XJncle David. 

“ Perhaps she really didn’t help him. It is so easy 
you know to — to be mistaken about people.” 

It was Rhoda who said this, speaking with an evident 
effort, and with a bright red spot in each of her cheeks. 
Cherry looked at her with surprise and gratitude ; it 
was something new, indeed, for Rhoda to come to Dil- 
ly Gage’s defence; and people always listened to Rhoda 
more than to her. 

The boys’ minds were too full of the bear to allow 
them to listen patiently to talk of less important mat- 
ters. Ben interrupted the comment upon Dilly Gage 
to announce that there were tears in Simmy’s eyes 
when they took leave of Captain Jack. “A fellow 
couldn’t help it. I felt as if I should be willing to be 
a girl for a minute or two myself. To see that splen- 
did old fellow come back two or three times to shake 
hands with us ! And we had to run, and Mr. Pringle 
had to drag him, or he never could have got him to 
leave us.” 

“I’m going to save up to buy a bear,” said Simmy, 
pathetically. “ They have some brains.” (This was 
understood to be an allusion to Garibaldi, but every 
one had too much regard for the boys’ feelings to men- 
tion him.) 

Little Caleb, who had been amusing himself with a 
piece of paper and a pencil, brought it to Rhoda for 
her admiration. It was so nondescript a figure as to 
be quite perplexing if little Caleb had not considerately 


FLYING HILL FARM. 


209 


printed the explanation beneath it, thus : “ THIS IZ 
A PIRUT HIM SET THE BARN AFIRE.” 

Rhoda spelled it aloud with difficulty, not thinking 
that even little Caleb was to touch her wound. 

“ ’Twasn’t a pirate, ’twas a girl,” cried Ben. “ Did 
you honestly see Dilly Gage there with a light in the 
middle of the night, Phonse? Philander was just tell- 
ing us. Well, Cherry, I think you must have had 
about enough of trying to make something of that girl. 
I wonder what Mr. Pringle will say now.” 

Even Ben, who was usually generous and consider- 
ate, was ready to believe anything evil of Dilly Gage, 
thought Cherry, and her heart burned within her. But 
of what use was it to defend Dilly while circumstances 
were so cruelly against her ? 

It was Uncle David who came to the rescue with the 
request that the matter should be kept quiet. “It 
seems probable that Dilly Gage set the fire,” he said, 
“but I don’t think she did it intentionally. At all 
events, we will be sure not to accuse her unjustly. I 
ought to have cautioned Philander not to spread the 
report.” 

Rhoda drew a long breath. Here was a reprieve, at 
least. If Dilly Gage were to be accused of nothing 
more than carelessness it would be a small matter. 
And since she had spent the night in the barn — Phi- 
lander had seen her running away in the midst of the 
fire — who could say that she had not set the fire? But 
just as Rhoda’s spirits were rising a little with this re- 
flection a new thought made her almost start from her 
seat in dismay. Dilly Gage had been in the barn when 
she was there; it was probable, or at least possible, that 
she had been a witness of the raid upon her rag-bags ! 
If that possibility had occurred to her at first she cer- 
tainly would not have hesitated to confess her possible 
14 


210 


FLYING HILL FARM. 


share in the mischief. Oh, why had she not thought 
of it? 

She rose abruptly from the table, and begging to be 
excused, in a voice that trembled in spite of all her ef- 
forts, she ran homeward. 

“She is worn out by the excitement; a little rest 
will set her right,” said Mrs. Backup, wisely. 

“I didn’t think she minded much at first,” said 
Cherry, wonderingly. “ She seemed to think so much 
of having new things.” 

“She was ’fraid of my pirut,” said little Caleb, proud- 
ly. “ I make ’em orfle. I made one so bad that I ran 
and hollered for mother, and after I went to bed Lkept 
thinking of him. But they won’t hurt you,” he added, 
with reassuring kindness, to Cherry. 

But it was Pirate Conscience who was making Rhoda 
pale, and one can escape more easily from all the ogres 
in Christendom than from him. 

“Land sake, child! it ain’t any use to take it so 
hard,” Loveday had called after her, as she fled in 
haste. “ When troubles come we must put our trust 
in Providence.” 

“There are no troubles — never any in the world,” 
murmured Rhoda, desperately, under her breath, as 
she ran up-stairs to her own room, “ except being bad.” 

Meanwhile Billy Gage, sitting on her door-step in 
the morning sunshine, waiting for the sweet fresh air 
to overcome the pain and giddiness that were the re- 
sults of the nervous shock and the suffocation which 
she had endured, saw ’Lando Bumpus returning from 
Flying Hill Farm with her horse and wagon. She had 
not known before whether they were safe. She had 
felt giddy and bewildered when she escaped, and had 
run on and on with no purpose except to get away 
as far as possible from the fire. She had been keenly 


FLYING HILL FARM. 


211 


anxious about the fate of her horse and of her wagon 
before she reached home, but had felt too weak and ill 
to go back. It was a great relief to see ’Lando bring- 
ing them home safe. It was pleasant, too, to reflect 
that those people need never know that she had been 
so lacking in bravery, after all, as to turn back and 
sleep in their barn. 

“ I don’t want ’em to know that I am beholden to 
’em for as much as a night’s shelter, anyway,” she said 
to herself. “If it had been Cherry Eastman’s barn, 
why, I wouldn’t have cared a mite.” 

“I had an orfle job to catch that horse, he was so 
scared,” remarked ’Lando, as soon as he came within 
speaking distance. “ Why didn’t you tell me you was 
in that barn? You must have come near bein’ burned 
to death. That hired man there, he see you runnin’ 
away when ’twas all ablaze. One of them boys, the 
one they call Phonse, knew you was there, and he tried 
to get you out. He tried to get up onto the loft when 
’twas all afire. The loft gave way and the ladder come 
down. He was burned consid’able, and they’re makin’ 
a sight of fuss about him for bein’ brave. I expect it 
was plucky for a soft-lookin’ feller like him.” 

“Phonse! I wouldn’t have believed he would have 
tried to save me! Maybe he didn’t know who it was 
that was up there,” faltered Hilly, with a softened look 
in her face. “ But there! I guess he’d have done it for 
anybody. He felt bad about my poor old Jane. But — 
but — how did he know there was anybody up there?” 

“ He peeked in through a chink or something in the 
barn-door, ’long about two o’clock in the morning, and 
he see you there with a light ransackin’ your rag-bags. 
He was lookin’ after a pig that had got into the cab- 
bages, and he see a light in the barn; that’s how he 
come to look.” 


212 


FLYING HILL FARM. 


A flush had risen to the roots of Dilly’s tow-colored 
hair. 

“He never! ’Twa’n’t me!” she cried, with much of 
her old fierceness; and then her manner changed sud- 
denly. “I — I mean I didn’t want ’em to know that I 
slept there, because I started to go over to old Mis’ 
Sally Pitkin’s, and then I got scairt and went back, 
and I was ashamed of it.” 

’Lando looked at her keenly, pausing in the act of 
alighting from the tin-wagon. 

“ ’Cordin’ to the hired man, they’re a-calc’latin’ up 
there — they’re a-calc’latin’ pretty strong that ’twas you 
that set the barn afire !” 

“ Me set the barn afire ?” she echoed, excitedly. 

“ The hired man, he said you might have done it ac- 
cidental, but everybody knew you had an uncommon 
strong grudge against ’em. And he says you must 
have fetched in some kind of a light, for there wa’n’t 
any left in the barn.” 

Dilly said nothing; she seemed to be reflecting deep- 
ly, and ’Lando continued, evidently to gratify some 
curiosity of his own: 

“Didn’t happen to have a lantern, or a lamp, or any- 
thing ’mongst the tin-ware, did you ?” 

“I never set fire to anything, accidental nor a pur- 
pose,” she said. “But folks can say just what they’re 
a mind to. Seems as if they never would let me alone! 
I be discouraged.” 

“If you could prove that you hadn’t any light, now, 
nor any matches, why, you could catch ’em. Them 
lawyers are sharp, but I tell you they can’t get ahead 
of facts,” said ’Lando, with the air of being strong in 
legal lore. “But there ! ’tain’t as if you hadn’t been 
to court once; you’ll know how to manage.” 

To court? Would it come to that? Would they 


X 


lando bumpus and dilly discuss the situation. 








FLYING HILL FARM. 


213 


arrest her? Dilly felt a numbness of terror stealing 
over her. Her head had grown more dizzy ; it was 
hard to think. 

How things had changed since that June morning 
when she went to court ! She had been full of defi- 
ance, and of a sure expectation of triumphing over her 
enemies. Now, this very morning, she had been think- 
ing that perhaps they were not her enemies after all. 
They had not said that they did not believe in her. She 
had thought that perhaps she had been too hasty in 
assuming that it was so. Many people in the village 
showed her by a studied avoidance or severe looks that 
they believed her to be a partner in her father’s de- 
ceit ; some few manifested a kindly feeling that they 
had never shown before. But now her rising hope 
about the people at Flying Hill Farm was dashed to 
the ground. They could believe her guilty of such 
wickedness as that ! They would always be against 
her. 

“ Let ’em do what they’re a mind to, if it’s to put 
me into jail!” said Hilly to herself, despairingly. “I 
can’t never get to be like folks.” 

And Cherry — had Cherry heard Phonse say that it 
was she whom he had seen with a light emptying the 
rag -bags? Surely Cherry would acknowledge the 
truth rather than to allow her to be accused ! It was 
very queer, indeed, that Cherry should have wished to 
go to her rag-bags in the middle of the night. ’Lando 
had gone away, after feeding the horse and doing 
many little acts of neighborly kindness, for which 
Hilly was too dejected to thank him. 

She emptied her rag-bags and looked their contents 
all over. a She put something in, and she took some- 
thing out ; it looked like a piece of them bridesmaid’s 
pink silk she took out, but I can’t make out anything 


214 


FLYING HILL FARM. 


about it. She acted terrible sly. Mebbe ’twas some- 
thing that she didn’t want anybody to know of. It 
didn’t seem a mite like Cherry Eastman, anyhow. I 
guess she’ll tell when she knows that they think ’twas 
me. I don’t see how she can help it. If she don’t it 
must be something that she feels awful anxious to keep 
folks from knowin’.” 

There was a rustling in the woods path, which led 
into the road very near the house, and two shapes 
emerged into the road, Mr. Pringle and the bear. 

Dilly’s troubled heart felt a thrill of hope. Mr. 
Pringle was her friend, and he had not forgotten her. 
But her thoughts reverted to Cherry Eastman even in 
the brief space of time before he reached her door. 

“I guess she’ll tell ; seems as if she must. But, any- 
how, I couldn’t bear to tell of her, I know I couldn’t. 
Nobody else in this livin’ world ever treated me as if 
I was like folks. No matter what they do to me, I’ll 
never tell that ’twas her !” 


CHAPTER XIX. 

“It was splendid of you, Phonse. I don’t know of 
another boy who would have been so brave,” said Cher- 
ry, the more heartily, perhaps, because she had almost 
forgotten Phonse and his painful burns in her anx- 
iety about the new trouble that threatened Billy Gage. 
Only a little while ago to help Phonse, and sympa- 
thize with him, so far as she could, had seemed her 
only mission in life. Now she had begun to discover 
that so much helpfulness was needed in the world 
that there was no longer any danger of her “ making 
a mollycoddle of Phonse,” as Ben had said. Moreover, 


FLYING HILL FARM. 


215 


Plionse had grown more manly ; the trouble about the 
railroad case had made a striking change in him. He 
had not been quite “ straightforward ” in his testimony, 
he had not told what Chissy Fenwick had said. As 
things had turned out, it had not mattered much. Cher- 
ry wondered whether if that day were to be lived over 
again, even with no knowledge of the results, Phonse 
would not tell. She thought he would. He received 
her praise with a scowl. He had not changed so much 
but that he was still exactly like Phonse. 

“ That girl is always making a bother,” he said, 
gruffly. “ Of course a fellow would go if anything 
alive were up there, if it were nothing but the bantam 
rooster.” 

Phonse had thought at first that all his pets were 
safe ; the fan-tailed pigeons had come flying home from 
all directions; but he had discovered later in the day 
that one of them was missing. He had only just found 
it, at noon of the second day after the fire, in possession 
of Mrs. Sally Pitkin’s little granddaughter, who was 
still figuring in the yellow night-gown, and had recov- 
ered it only by means of a quite magnificent bribe — 
five Bartlett pears, and a molasses cooky, a bright 
penny with a hole in it, a string of purple glass beads, 
and two resplendent feathers from a rooster’s tail. 
Cherry had shown her diplomatic talent by producing 
these offerings after all Phonse’s negotiations had fail- 
ed, she of the yellow night-gown being a most obsti- 
nate and covetous person. 

Now, Phonse was happy in the possession of all his 
pigeons, but had found that the eyes of one of his rab- 
bits were seriously affected, and its ear actually singed. 
He was bathing both the eyes and the ear of the un- 
fortunate rabbit with hamamelis carefully diluted, and 
Cherry, watching the operation, said to herself, “He 


216 


FLYING HILL FARM. 


thinks so much of that rabhit, and not at all of poor 
Dilly Gage and her troubles 1” 

It happened at that very moment that Phonse looked 
up from the rabbit, and said: “Uncle David is going 
to send for that girl. I heard him talking about it 
with Deacon Backup. He wants to know what she 
has to say for herself. He said he should be glad, for 
his own sake, to let the matter drop, but he thought it 
was his duty to investigate it. He said if Dilly Gage 
had done such a thing as that, it would be the best 
thing that could happen to her to be sent to a reform- 
atory institution.” 

“ Oh, oh !” cried Cherry, in a horrified tone. 

“ Especially as she hadn’t any one to look after her, 
and has always been under such bad influences. Love- 
day said she had heard that her mother was a good 
woman, but she died when Dilly was a baby. Uncle 
David is very much vexed because they’re talking 
about it all over town. He says Philander ought not 
to have mentioned it. When Philander gets excited, 
as he was after the fire, he hasn’t much sense. And he 
is so sensitive about having it said that he wasn’t care- 
ful about the lanterns! he always is, you know ; he’s 
orfly fussy. There’s never been a lantern left in that 
barn overnight since he has lived here. I suppose 
that girl thought it was a good chance, because every 
one would say that the fire caught from the Japanese 
lanterns. Don’t you remember that she threatened to 
pay us up, that day of the trial ?” 

“ She — she is quite different from that now,” said 
Cherry. 

“ It isn’t so very long ago. And that girl has more 
reason to have a grudge against us than she had then.” 

Phonse had come to have a pride in his discovery of 
the old tin-peddler’s fraud. Every one questioned him 


FLYING HILL FARM. 


217 


about it, and be bad related the circumstances over and 
over again, laying aside his usual reticence. He told 
just how Dilly had behaved, without expressing any 
opinion concerning her share in the deceit, but that re- 
serve was for Cherry’s sake. “She would persist in 
being such a goose about that girl,” he said to himself. 
He had no doubt whatever about her guilt — a girl who 
was capable of making up faces! Phonse’s keen ar- 
tistic objection to anything that was ugly to look at 
influenced his opinion of Dilly Gage more than he re- 
alized. Dilly was not pretty, at the best-, and her fa- 
cility for distorting her face into grotesque and hideous 
shapes was certainly unusual. It was only a mild ex- 
pression of sentiment in Roaring Brook society. It was 
only since Cherry had shown a friendly interest in her 
that Dilly had begun to realize that it was not “like 
folks ” to make faces. 

To send Dilly to a reformatory institution ! It had 
too dreadful a sound to be true. Uncle David’s silence 
about the matter had led her to hope that the cruel 
suspicions were to be forgotten. She had not heard 
before that they were talking about it all over town, 
because she had stayed closely at home, helping to 
take care of the household treasures that had been 
water-soaked and tossed about in the confusion of the 
fire, and taking a little care of Rhoda, too, for Rhoda 
had been ill, nervous and feverish, from the excitement 
and unusual exposure to the chilly morning air, the 
doctor said. 

“They mustn’t do it! they can’t do it!” cried Cher- 
ry, hotly. And then she rushed away and into the sit- 
ting-room, where Rhoda lay, looking very pale, on the 
red cretonne-covered sofa. “ Oh, Rhoda, do you think 
Uncle David will have Dilly Gage sent to a reforma- 
tory institution ? It would kill her !” 


218 


FLYING HILL FARM. 


Rhoda sprang up, and her white cheeks were sud- 
denly as red as the sofa. 

“ Oh, no, no! he mustn’t! We must coax him not 
to !” she cried. 

Cherry looked at her gratefully. Rhoda was wiser 
wdien she was ill, she thought ; she seemed to have 
more feeling for others. 

“You coax him ; you tell him that you don’t think 
she did it,” said Cherry, eagerly. “ He will listen so 
much more to you !” It was new and delightful to 
have Rhoda for an ally. Cherry felt an added assur- 
ance that her cause must be just. 

“ It seems to me that every one listens more to you, 
lately,” said Rhoda, with a touch of grievance in her 
tone. “And I — I don’t know what I can say. She 
was in the barn, and why did she run away ?” 

“ I suppose she was frightened and almost suffocated. 
Any one would have been likely to run away. If you 
think she did it — ” 

“I don’t think she did,” said Rhoda, but rather 
faintly. “ I think it is possible that she did, but I 
don’t think she ought to be sent to a reform-school, 
or punished in any way, when it can’t be proven. I 
don’t think there’s any danger that she will be. 
You’re so excitable, Cherry! I wish you wouldn’t 
startle me so.” 

Rhoda lay back upon her cushions, looking peevish 
and miserable. 

“ I didn’t think it would startle you. I didn’t think 
you would care very much whether she were sent to a 
reform-school or not. I thought you would say, ‘ Per- 
haps it would be the best thing for her.’ ” 

“Well, perhaps it would!” cried Rhoda, desperate- 
ly. “ I am tired to death of Hilly Gage. I don’t see 
why we need to have so much trouble about her. If 


FLYING HILL FARM. 


219 


you hadn’t asked her to stay to the bear -show this 
wouldn’t have happened.” 

“I’m sure I wish I hadn’t. But she never has any 
good times, and I thought we might give her one little 
bit of a one as well as not,” said Cherry. 

“ It’s well enough, of course, to give food and clothes 
to those Roaring Brook people, but when you try to 
treat them as if they were like — like other people, you 
see how much trouble comes of it.” 

Rhoda was Rhoda, after all; there was no help to 
be looked for in that direction, thought Cherry, and 
was going away in silence — unless a slight emphasis 
of her boot -heels must be counted — when Rhoda’s 
voice stopped her. 

“If there should beany danger, I — I shall tell papa that 
I don’t approve of it,” said Rhoda, in her grand manner. 

Cherry’s impulse was to go to Uncle David and 
“coax him,” as Rhoda had suggested at first, when 
she was “startled”; but a second thought convinced 
her that that would be useless. Uncle David was sel- 
dom coaxable ; he would certainly not be so when he 
had, as Phonse reported, “felt it to be his duty to in- 
vestigate the matter.” Perhaps, after all, it would be 
better that he should see and question Dilly Gage ; 
her honest, straightforward manner could not fail to 
impress him, thought Cherry. She wished she could 
go down to Roaring Brook and try to comfort Dilly, 
since it was her invitation that had brought this trou- 
ble upon her. Dilly must know that she was being 
talked of all over town, first on account of her father’s 
disappearance, and now in connection with the fire, one 
trouble and humiliation following close upon the other. 
And how hurt and angry Dilly must be ! One suspi- 
cion would be held to prove the other true, and how 
few people would now believe her innocent ! 


220 


FLYING HILL FARM. 


It was later on that same afternoon that Cherry, 
looking over the garden fence, saw Dilly’s sturdy lit- 
tle figure tramping along the dusty road. Her faded 
muslin dress hung limply around her — Hilly was in 
the habit of starching her dresses so stiffly that they 
set out like a balloon — and the feather on her old 
straw hat remained in the same draggled state in 
which the rain of that eventful night had left it. 
Dilly had meant to freshen her hat by means of some 
of the' famous bridesmaid pink silk, but had no heart 
to try any longer to be “ like folks.” 

“ Dilly ! oh, Dilly !” cried Cherry over the fence, 
and Dilly stopped, looking inquiringly at Cherry. 
Was she going to tell her now that she had acknowl- 
edged to being in the barn with a light, and the dread- 
ful suspicions against her were at an end? A gleam 
of hope lighted Dilly’s dejected face as she looked at 
her. 

“I’m so sorry, Dilly! It was I that got you into 
this trouble.” 

“ You’re a-goin’ to tell, then, just how ’twas, be you? 
Then they’ll know that ’twa’n’t me that had a light,” 
said Dilly, eagerly. 

“ Of course I knew in a moment that you ran back 
into the barn because of the lightning and the rain. 
I’ve said so to every one,” said Cherry. 

Dilly drew a long breath. “ You ain’t a-goin’ to 
tell, then? It must have been something that you 
care a sight about keepin’ dark. I can’t see no great 
harm in it. You could take ’most anything that be- 
longed to me, Cherry Eastman, J’ve set by you so.” 
Dilly resolutely swallowed a choking sob. “And I 
ain’t a-goin’ to say anything. He’s sent for me, Squire 
Brewster has. He hadn’t no call to; he might have 
come where I was if he wanted to see me.” Dilly 


\ 












FLYING HILL FAEM. 


221 


tossed her head with a touch of her old defiance. 
“But I’ve come. Here I be. And I’m a-goin in to 
see him. And look a’ here, Cherry Eastman, if you 
ain’t a-goin’ to tell that ’twas you that had a light 
there, why, I ain’t a-goin’ to. It ’most seems as if you 
would tell ” — there was a pathetic tone of appeal in 
Hilly’s voice — “ seems as if it made such a sight more 
difference to me than it could make to you; but if you 
hain’t a mind to tell, why, then, I’ve wished there was 
something I could do for you, and now I ain’t a-goin’ 
to flinch; you needn’t be the least mite afraid that I’ll 
tell, no matter if they send me to jail !” 

“ Hilly, I don’t know what you mean. What is it 
that you think I don’t want you to tell?” said Cherry, 
in bewilderment. 

Hilly looked at her for a moment in silence. “ You 
might trust me when I tell you I ain’t a-goin’ to tell 
anyhow,” she said, at length. 

“ You must tell everything you know about the fire,” 
said Cherry. “You seem to think that there is some- 
thing I don’t want you to tell. You are dreadfully 
puzzling, Hilly.” 

“ You don’t walk in your sleep, nor nothin’, do you?” 
said Hilly, eagerly. “ I’ve heard of folks that did.” 

“ No, I am sure I don’t ; why , Hilly?” said Cherry, 
impatiently. 

Hilly hesitated, looking curiously at Cherry; then 
she looked up and down the road, as if to be sure that 
no one was in sight, and then into the garden, where 
not a sound broke the silence save the buzzing of a bee 
around the tall hollyhocks in the midst of which 
Cherry was standing. Hilly leaned her head over the 
fence until her lips almost reached Cherry’s ear. 

“ I see you that night !” she said. “ Your lamp 
a-shinin’, or the rooster a-crowin’, or something, woke 


222 


FLYING HILL FARM. 


me up. I was leanin’ over the hay-loft lookin’ at you 
all the time you was a-rummagin’ in my rag-bags! If 
there was anything there that you wanted — ” 

“ Why, Dilly Gage ! What are you talking about?” 
cried Cherry. “ If you thought you saw me in the barn 
that night, you must have been dreaming !” 

Dilly shook her head decidedly. 

“I pinched myself, and I wa’n’t dreamin’,” she said. 
“You seemed to be in a terrible hurry. You set your 
lamp down right among some wisps of hay, and I ex- 
pect that’s the way the fire ketched. If it’s just because 
you don’t want folks to blame you for the fire, why, it 
don’t seem a mite like you, Cherry Eastman ; but I’m 
a-goin’ to let ’em say ’twas me, and that I done it a-pur- 
pose ! Everything is so agin me I might as well. And 
they’d believe you before they would me anyhow. And 
you was real good to me, Cherry Eastman.” 

“ Dilly, I wasn’t in the barn that night. Do you think 
I would open your rag-bags ? What should I want 
there ?” 

Cherry’s tone was cold and decided. For the first 
time a doubt of Dilly Gage had struck her sharply. It 
was such a strange, improbable story. It was utterly 
false, she thought. It seemed as if Dilly must have 
invented it to divert suspicion from herself. 

“I don’t know what you wanted, but I guess I know 
that plaid cape of yours,” said Dilly. She turned 
from the fence and took up her sturdy way to the 
house. 

Cherry was still standing by the fence when, a few 
rods away, Dilly turned back. 

“You was good to me, Cherry Eastman, when no- 
body else wa’n’t, and I couldn’t forget it if it was to 
save me!” 

Cherry stood gazing after her in utter perplexity. 


FLYING IIILL FARM. 


223 


Had the others been right in distrusting Dilly Gage, 
after all? Perhaps she had been a sharer in her fa- 
ther’s fraud ! Loveday was right when she said that 
she (Cherry) “ ought to pay more heed to older folks’ 
judgment.” Perhaps she had been dreaming (in spite 
of the pinch). She seemed so honest ! And it seemed 
too queer a story for her to have made up. Cherry felt 
an impulse to go into the house and tell some one about 
it — Ben, or Phonse, or Rhoda. But on second thoughts 
she decided that there would be no consolation in hear- 
ing them say, as they would be sure to do, that “ it was 
no more than might be expected that Dilly would in- 
vent such a story to shield herself.” They “had al- 
ways known that girl was sty.” Cherry thought she 
had never known a more painful feeling than the sud- 
den overthrow of her faith in Dilly Gage. 

She stood motionless among the hollyhocks, her 
eyes fixed on vacancy, and her brain in a tangle of 
puzzling thoughts, and left Dilly to go, unfriended, 
into Uncle David’s somewhat stern and forbidding 
presence. 

Could a girl have such an honest, innocent look and 
be so false and wicked? What a wistful glance she 
had cast upon her as she turned away! 

All her doubt gave way at once. 

“ I can’t reason it out; Phonse may say I am just like 
a girl. I do believe in Dilly Gage ! It’s very queer; I 
think she was dreaming, but she means, I’m sure she 
means to tell the truth !” 

Cherry rushed into the house by the nearest way, 
which was by flying leaps over the foundation for a 
new porch which the carpenters were already laying. 
They stared at her in wonder, and she heard them 
laugh. Rhoda would never be guilty of such an un- 
lady-like proceeding. But Cherry had no time to la- 


224 


FLYING IIILL FARM. 


ment her impulsive deeds now. She was knocking, 
breathless, at the door of Uncle David’s little office. 

“ Oh, may I come in, Uncle David?” she cried, as no 
answer came to her knock. 

Uncle David looked at her with a slight frown of 
annoyance as he opened the door. 

“ I should prefer not to be disturbed,” he said. “ If 
you have anything to say, any new information — ” 

“ I have, I have ! I know Dilly didn’t do it! I know 
that every word she says is true — or she thinks it is, 
although it seems so queer. I know it because — be- 
cause I do !” Cherry paused, breathless. 

“You seem to be a very valuable witness,” said Un- 
cle David, dryly. 

Phonse was standing near the door, scowling darkly, 
and evidently anxious only to get away. 

“ You are sure, Phonse, that you saw this girl through 
the key-hole of the barn door, and that she had a light?” 
said Uncle David. 

“ Yes, I’m sure,” said Phonse, emphatically. “ I didn’t 
see her face, you know,” he added, as an after-thought. 
“ But it was a girl ; and it couldn’t have been any one 
else.” 

Uncle David evidently thought that as much a mat- 
ter of course as Phonse did, for he paid no attention 
to it. 

“And you say you slept on the hay-loft until the 
smoke awakened you ?” said Uncle David. 

“ No, I never said so,” responded Dilly, promptly. 
“I said I never got down off the loft till then, and I 
never went nigh my wagon nor the barn floor at all, 
and I never had no light, nor no matches, nor nothing.” 

Dilly delivered herself of this superfluity of nega- 
tives with emphasis, but in a hopeless tone. She had 
cast one wistful, expectant glance at Cherry as she 


FLYING HILL FARM. 


225 


came in, and then dejection and apathy had settled 
again upon her face. Uncle David regarded her search- 
ingly, with knit brows. 

“Did you see a light in the barn? — did you see or 
hear any other person there?” he demanded, suddenly. 

Dilly hesitated and her face changed. 

“ Do you know who set the lire ?” asked Uncle Da- 
vid, sternly, noting the change. 

Cherry was tempted to tell of the strange delusion 
that possessed Dilly with regard to her presence in the 
barn, but would not that hurt Dilly’s cause, rather than 
help it? 

“No; I don’t know who set the fire. I don’t expect 
nobody set it — a purpose,” said Dilly. 

“ Did you see or hear any one in the barn that night? 
or did you know that there was a light there ?” said 
Uncle David, returning to his first unanswered question. 

“ I ain’t a-goin’ to say any more about it,” said Dilly; 
and she folded her arms across her breast with an air 
of determined endurance. “I didn’t have anything to 
do with it, more’n I liked to got burned to death. You 
can put me in jail if you’re a mind to, but you can’t 
make me say any more.” 

Uncle David paced up and down, as was his habit 
when perplexed or annoyed; then he turned to Dilly. 

“ I sha’n’t detain you now,” he said. “ I want you 
to think this over, and I am sure you will realize how 
much better it will be for you to tell all that you know 
about this affair. It may be a very serious matter for 
you otherwise.” 

There was a slight noise at the other side of the door 
(seldom used) which led from the office to the parlor. 
Rhoda, listening, pale and trembling, had placed her 
hand upon the knob; but her resolution failed, and the 
next moment the opportunity was gone. Lawyer Phil- 
15 


226 


FLYING HILL FARM. 


ipson was coming along the drive-way. He always 
went into the office without knocking. 

Hilly turned in the door-way, with scarcely a touch 
of her old defiance, but with a patient dejection in her 
appearance. 

“ I ain’t never a-goin’ to tell,” she said. 


CHAPTER XX. 

Hilly had gone on her homeward way, and Cherry 
had repressed her strong impulse to run after her and 
tell her that she still believed her innocent. Of what 
use was it while Hilly would only look reproachfully 
at her, and persist in her strange fancy that it was she 
who had set the fire ? 

“ I think that girl will run away,” Phonse announced 
at dinner. “ She must know that it’s of no use for her 
to pretend that she didn’t do it.” 

“She will be watched,” said Uncle Havid. “The 
matter of her connection with the fire looks rather 
worse to me than it did. I thought it probable that 
she set it accidentally. Now it is evident that she 
knows something about it which she is determined to 
keep secret. There seems to be some one else con- 
cerned in it.” 

“It’s very likely that she is only an accessary,” 
said Phonse. 

That dreadful word again! Phonse seemed to take 
a positive delight in calling Hilly Gage an accessary, 
thought Cherry, feeling very unreasonably angry. Per- 
haps it was because it gratified his vanity to use a word 
which sounded so knowing. Perhaps it really wasn’t 


FLYING HILL FARM. 


227 


so bad as if he had accused her of doing the wicked- 
ness alone, but it had a perfectly horrid sound, and he 
did say it as if he liked to. 

“Phonse, did you say that you didn’t see the girl’s 
face when you looked through the key-hole?” asked 
Uncle David, suddenly, and Rhoda dropped her fork 
with a great clatter. 

“No; I don’t think I did,” said Phonse, slowly. “Of 
course I knew it must be Dilly Gage.” 

“ What did she have on ?” asked Cherry. 

“ Oh, I don’t notice girls’ toggery,” said Phonse, im- 
patiently. “ But I do remember now that she had on 
a sort of cape that covered her all up, and it had a hood 
that w r ent over her head.” 

“ Dilly hasn’t a cape like that,” said Cherry. 

“She might have borrowed one,” said Loveday. 
“Almost all the gossamer water-proofs are made like 
that. It was rainy, too.” 

“But she hadn’t one on in the evening,” persisted 
Cherry; “she had only her old shawl. And she didn’t 
go anywhere to borrow one. I don’t think she did,” 
she added, more faintly, remembering that Dilly had 
not told her what had befallen her before she returned 
to the barn. 

“ Great you know about what she did !” said Phonse, 
scornfully. “ What other girl could it have been? If 
it was any other, it must have been one who came w r ith 
her or whom she let in.” 

And Dilly had thought she saw her there with her 
long cape on ! reflected Cherry, so deeply absorbed 
that she did not know that her hands were folded in 
her lap and her soup was growing cold. Could she 
have walked in her sleep ? She was on the point of 
revealing this deeper mystery of Dilly’s accusation, 
when Ben created a diversion by suddenly announcing 


228 


FLYING IIILL FARM. 


that Rhoda looked like True Pulsifer’s sister who died 
of consumption. 

“ She’s so nervous ! The fire has wore her all out,” 
said Loveday. “And I always used to think ’twas 
Cherry that had the nerves.” 

“ She isn’t looking well. I think she must have a 
change. Your aunt Adam is at Nahant. I shall write 
and ask her to take charge of Rhoda for a few weeks,” 
said Uncle David. 

“You’ll like that, won’t you, Rhoda?” said Cherry, 
sympathetically, and feeling a pang of conscience that 
she had scarcely been aware of Rhoda’s illness, in her 
interest in Dilly Gage’s fortunes. 

“ Can I go soon, papa ?” asked Rhoda, anxiously. 
What a blessed relief it would be to get away where 
that fire and Dilly Gage’s probable share in it were 
not continually talked about ! she thought. And no 
harm was likely to come to Dilly Gage. She had 
heard several people say that it would not be possible 
to prove anything against her. Philander, who ap- 
proved of severe measures, declared that “although 
the squire was so stern appearin’, he was as soft as mo- 
lasses-candy in’ardly, and would let that girl go scot- 
free.” 

To get away was apparently all that Rhoda thought 
of now. She was feverishly eager about her prepara- 
tions, and consulted all the railroad-guides available 
to discover the earliest moment at which a letter from 
Aunt Adam might be expected. Once away, she 
should think no more about this matter. It was only 
a trifle, and she had grown morbid by brooding over 
it. What could it matter to a girl like Dilly Gage 
to be suspected of anything? No one could possibly 
have any confidence in her, because of the fraud of 
which her father and she had been guilty. 


FLYING HILL FAEM. 


229 


Rhoda cared nothing now about the fair for which 
she had been working so enthusiastically. She gave all 
the pretty things she had made to Cherry — there was 
no hand-screen of cameo-pink silk among them — and 
said, languidly, that it made no difference, when Cher- 
ry protested that she ought to have the credit of them. 
It was so unlike Rhoda! Cherry remembered, with a 
pang, that a girl in a story which she had read who 
died young had done just so, and she lay awake at 
night crying softly as she recalled all the “ horrid 
things” she had done to Rhoda, from the time when, 
down behind the gooseberry - bushes — oh, shocking 
recollection! — she had called her “a pig,” up to their 
very latest quarrel. There was no doubt about it, 
Rhoda was exactly like the girl in the story who died! 

Her mind was so absorbed in Rhoda and Rhoda’s 
preparations that she almost forgot Dilly Gage’s mys- 
terious conduct, and all her wrongs and troubles. She 
shared Philander’s conclusion that Uncle David was 
too kind-hearted to be hard upon a defenceless girl like 
Dilly, who, to use her own words, “ had never had a 
chance to be like folks,” and, moreover, he was very 
busy with other affairs. Lawyer Philipson came to 
see him every day, with his green bag bulging with 
papers, as if he had just come from court; and he was 
also considering plans for the erection of the new build- 
ings. Uncle David was very fond of “the old place,” 
as he called it, which had belonged to his great-grand- 
father, and all Byerly was interested with him in the 
plans for rebuilding. A Chelmsborough architect had 
been applied to for plans, but every one in the village 
was ready with some suggestion. 

Little Dr. Clinch came bustling up the hill early 
one morning, “leavin’ his dish-water all a-coolin’,” as 
he announced, to display some new ideas for a horse’s 


230 


FLYING HILL FARM. 


stall which he had sat up half the night to produce 
satisfactorily upon paper. While he was doing that 
there had popped into his head a plan for a bird-house 
upon which he expected to secure a patent and make 
his fortune. Phonse was greatly interested in this lat- 
ter invention, which afforded every appliance for health 
and convenience in bird house-keeping. 

The Chelmsborough architect’s plans had also just 
arrived, and were spread out upon the table, and every 
one, even Ben and Simmy Backup, whose pursuits led 
them much afield in these vacation days, had gathered 
around to see them. Cherry ran and called Rhoda. 
She would like to know that the new barn was to be 
very “ stylish,” and to express her opinion whether the 
vane should be a new gilt horse, a silver arrow, or the 
old tarnished chanticleer, which Philander had rescued 
from the ruins, and to which their fancies all clung fond- 
ly, especially that of Cherry, who could remember when 
Philander had made her believe that that rooster could 
crow ! 

It was quite thrilling to hold the old cock in one’s 
hands, to discover how astonishingly large he was, al- 
most as much as one could lift, and to find out what the 
letters under his feet, which one had been able dimly to 
descry from some points, really were. Philander, who 
had been on two ladders, almost up to the lofty height 
where he lived, had declared that they set forth the 
rhyme of the ancient primers : 

“The cock doth crow to let us know, 

If we be wise, what time to rise.” 

But it was quite evident now that this, as they had al- 
ways suspected, was only one of the efforts of Philan- 
der’s very active imagination. They proved to be the 
name of the firm where chanticleer was bought, and of 


FLYING HILL FARM. 


231 


the old, old street in Boston where that firm had been 
located. They were all examining it with eager in- 
terest, and Rhoda was giving Philander “a pursed-up 
look” (that was what Ben called it) for “ story-tell- 
ing,” when in walked Mr. Pringle. 

Ben and Simmy greeted him with a chorus of inqui- 
ries about the bear, and a chorus of lamentations that 
the show was not coming to Byerly. But Mr. Pringle 
had not his usual jovial air, and he answered their in- 
quiries somewhat shortly. His genial face wore a shad- 
ow of trouble, and after he had sat down he rubbed his 
bald head and bestowed little embarrassed hitches upon 
his trousers-legs, like Philander when one accused him 
of discrepancies. 

“I was wantin’ to have a little talk with you, squire,” 
he said. “ No, ’tain’t noways a private matter. If it 
had been kept private, why, then I shouldn’t have had 
a call to come here.” There was a slight accent of 
reproach in his voice. “You see, the show business is 
wearin’ to an old man, and he wants a little home of 
his own where he can sleep nights without thinkin’ of 
joggin’ along in the mornin’. I was calc’latin’ that 
my little granddaughter — she was all I had after her 
mother died, sixteen year ago — that she was goin’ to 
be my house-keeper when I got me such a little place, 
but she was took away.” The old man’s voice gave 
out on the last word, as if it were lost in his great 
white beard. But he found it again, and went on. 
“ They offered me a chance to take care of the Pen- 
dleton Museum, over to Chelmsborough. ’Twas just 
what I wanted. I like to be among animal creturs. 
I set more by ’em livin’ than I do stuffed, but I like 
’em, anyhow. And then there’s a little shop to let over 
there in the row facin’ the common, with a nice little 
tenement belongin’ to it, with a bit of garden slopin’ 


232 


FLYING HILL FARM. 


down to the river in the rear. I’m catenatin’ to keep a 
kind of a bird shop there — live canaries and such ; also 
stuffin’ and mountin’ neatly executed, white mice and 
tame squirrels and different kinds of small pets ; and 
I want to raise a young alligator and a couple of bear 
cubs that I have on hand. I was lookin’ to have Billy 
Gage to keep house for me.” 

“ Bear cubs and an alligator ! What luck some peo- 
ple do have !” said Simmy Backup, aside, to Ben, with 
a groan of envy. 

“ Billy Gage and my Phoebe was friends, and I al- 
ways took to her. Kind of pert and sarcy, mebbe, but 
land ! she was always right there ! What I mean is, 

I you could trust her. I know well enough what her 
father was. I never had any doubt but he was up to 
his tricks about that railroad business. But talk about 
her bein’ knowin’ to it! Why, it ain’t in her to be 
anything but as honest as daylight.” 

“ I knew it, Mr. Pringle — I always knew it !” cried 
Cherry, fervently. And then she remembered those 
few minutes in the garden, after Billy had told her 
that very queer story, and added, guiltily, “At least, 
almost always.” 

Mr. Pringle continued, without noticing the inter- 
ruption : 

“ I could have given her a good home, and she could 
have ’tended the shop for me while I was at the mu- 
seum. It’s more fittin’ for a girl to be ’tendin’ a little 
home-like kind of a shop, with creturs in it for com- 
pany, than to be ridin’ round the country atop of a 
tin-wagon — that’s my idee. And I’ve been consid’able 
savin’, and I was calc’latin’ that she should be to me 
jest the same as my own granddaughter would have 
been. I should have left her consid’able well provided 
for when my time come to go. But now, you see, 


FLYING HILL FARM. 


233 


’long of these stories that’s in everybody’s mouth, how 
she set your barn afire, she ain’t willin’ to go with me. 
I’ve listened to ’em all, and I don’t take a mite of stock 
in ’em, not a mite, and they didn’t hender me from 
askin’ her. She was so tickled at first that she burst 
right out cryin’. ‘ ’Twould seem ’most as if I’d got to 
heaven,’ says she. But, then, when she come to think, 
says she : ‘ Grandpa Pringle, I should ruin the busi- 
ness ! I’ve got such a bad name that nobody wouldn’t 
come to the shop !’ I expect it would be bad for the 
shop, and business is business; but, still, I says to her, 
‘ Come ; I’m willin’ to resk it, Dilly,’ says I. But she 
won’t come. She says she ain’t goin’ to hurt nor hen- 
der anybody that’s been kind to her. I’d take her and 
go ’way off where these mis’able stories wa’n’t never 
heard of, only there’s the museum, you see. It’s con- 
sid’able of an income, and it’s a consolation to an old 
man to have satisfyin’ work ; and she wouldn’t let me 
give it up for her sake. So what I was thinkin’, squire, 
was that if you’d come right out flat and say you didn’t 
believe no such a thing about her, and you didn’t hold 
with folks talkin’ about her as they do, why, mebbe 
’twould turn the tide in her favor, so’st she wouldn’t 
think she’d ruin the business, and seems as if you must 
feel that ’tain’t any more’n right to a defenceless girl.” 

“But, my dear sir,” said Uncle David, with a stern 
air, “you must remember that her defenceless condi- 
tion doesn’t alter the fact that she may be guilty. 
There are some circumstances which point very strong- 
ly to that conclusion. She admits that she knows 
something about it which she will not tell. If you can 
prove her innocent, or explain these mysterious cir- 
cumstances which connect her with the affair, I shall 
be only too happy to help to spread the tidings of such 
a result far and wide.” 


234 


FLYING HILL FARM. 


“That’s the best you can do, is it?” said Grandpa 
Pringle, heavily. “ You think she done it, and you’re 
goin’ to stick to it.” 

“ I strongly advised her to conf — to tell all she knew 
about it, but she seemed very obstinate,” said Uncle 
David. “I am very reluctant to take any measures 
against her, but you must see that it is impossible for 
me to announce a belief in her innocence which I do 
not possess.” 

“ Then I expect it ain’t any use to talk, and I’d bet- 
ter be goin’,” said Mr. Pringle, rising slowly. “ Seems 
queer to me how you can think she done it; but, then, 
you see, I knew Dilly Gage when she was a baby.” 

It was evident that this did not strike Uncle David 
as a convincing argument. Cherry expected him to 
say to Mr. Pringle, as sarcastically as he had said it to 
her, that he was a valuable witness; but instead he 
said, somewhat shortly : 

“ I am sorry that I can’t look at the matter as you 
do, but it is quite impossible.” 

“ Can’t you coax her to go with you, Mr. Pringle ?” 

It was Rhoda who spoke. She was very pale, and 
her eyes looked large and dark and startled — “ almost 
as if they were not Rhoda’s eyes at all,” Cherry said 
to herself ; her voice, too, was strained and unnatural. 
“ Papa wouldn’t have her arrested or anything, would 
you, papa? No one knows that she had anything to 
do with it, and after a while people would stop talking 
about it.” 

Grandpa Pringle shook his head slowly. 

“ I expect the story would be all the time a-croppin’ 
up and tormentin’ her, and folks would fight shy of 
the shop. She thinks so, and she’s middlin’ sot in her 
way, Dilly is. She won’t never agree to it. Seems kind 
of hard, when ’twould make such a comfortable little 


FLYING HILL FARM. 


235 


home for her V me. ‘I’ve got a tradin’ bump,’ says Dil- 
ly, ‘and I could do real well in the shop, and I’m handy 
about the house, too; and it’s the first chance I ever had 
to be like folks.’ Seems a pity, but she won’t never agree 
to it so long as folks believe that she set that fire.” 

“ They won’t believe it !” cried Rhoda, in a shrill, 
high-keyed voice. “ Nobody shall believe it, because 
I’ll tell all about it ! I want every one, every one in 
the town, to know that I did it! I set my lamp down 
where there was hay — I was in such a hurry. It was 
I that Phonse saw through the door. I had on Cher- 
ry’s cape with the hood; I caught it off the hook as I 
ran through the hall. I — I wanted something out of 
Dilly Gage’s rag-bag — it was a piece of pink silk to 
make a screen for the fair — and I couldn’t bear to ask 
her for it. I had said unkind things to her, and she 
was rude to me. I put something into the bag in place 
of it — a piece of blue silk — but I couldn’t bear to own 
that I had done it. I didn’t think at first that any one 
would be accused of setting the fire, and then — ” 

Rhoda’s voice broke suddenly. It was so terrible 
to meet all those wondering eyes, to see the mortifi- 
cation, worse than anger, in her father’s face ; to be 
ashamed before them all — she who had almost never 
been to blame! But she conquered her voice, in the 
midst of a dead silence. “ And then — I was ashamed 
that I hadn’t told at once ; that I had let Dilly Gage 
be so unjustly suspected. I don’t know how I could 
have done it. I never knew I was so wicked. But I 
always wanted to be thought very good and — and 
grown-up, and the lady of the house, and so I kept it 
to myself, and it has almost killed me ; and now you’ll 
all despise and hate me— but every one will know that 
Dilly Gage had nothing to do with it, and she can have 
the little house and the shop and all!” 


236 


FLYING HILL FARM. 


“Oh, Rhoda!” Cherry drew Rhoda’s trembling 
form down onto the red sofa, and gave her what she 
would have described as “ a great hug.” 

There was a silence which no one seemed able to 
break. Uncle David seemed to be shocked and sur- 
prised out of all his dignified self - command. Tears 
were running down Loveday’s cheeks, and the little 
horse-doctor blew his nose very hard. A faint excla- 
mation — “ Rhoda — whew!” had come from Ben’s corner 
of the room. It was Simmy Backup — Simmy who had 
never been distinguished for tact — who came to the 
rescue. 

“ I say, Rhoda, you’re a reg’lar brick, anyhow. It 
takes an orfle lot of pluck for a fellow to come right 
up and face the music like that.” 

Uncle David cleared his throat and spoke with an 
effort. “ You have tried to atone for the wrong, Rho- 
da ; that is a great deal,” he said. But it was evident 
that his pride and his faith in Rhoda were both sorely 
wounded. “ The first thing to be attended to,” he con- 
tinued, “ is to make the matter as public as possible.” 
They all understood that it cost Squire Brewster some- 
thing to say that, but perhaps no one knew quite how 
much. 

“The worst of it is you can’t be bad without hurt- 
ing some one else ” — that was what Rhoda was saying 
to herself. 

“ It must be known that our suspicions have greatly 
wronged Dilly Gage.” 

“Dilly thinks it was I, and she wouldn’t tell of me!” 
cried Cherry, realizing suddenly all that Dilly’s silence 
had meant. “Rhoda had my cape on, and she saw 
her. She told me that she saw me there. I thought 
just for a moment that she made it up, and so I didn’t 
tell of it ; then I knew there must be some strange mis- 


Em 



















■ 







“cherry gives rhoda a 


GREAT HUG.’ ” 


I 






















FLYING HILL FAKM. 237 

take ; because if you know Billy you are sure that she 
won’t tell a lie.” 

“There seems to be something really noble about the 
girl,” said Uncle David, with a perplexed expression. 

“ Then you’re willin’, Squire Brewster, that I should 
tell folks just how ’twas?” said Grandpa Pringle, 
eagerly. “I mean that Dilly hadn’t anything at all 
to do with it, but it was just a little carelessness on 
your little girl’s part.” 

“ I think it is due to Dilly Gage that all the circum- 
stances should be known,” said Uncle David ; and then 
he crossed the room to Rhoda, and laid his hand upon 
her head. “ My poor little girl !” he said. “ It is a hard 
lesson, but I think you have learned it well.” 

Cherry cast about in her mind for some consolation 
to offer, Rhoda was so unnaturally tearless. “You’ll 
be gone away soon, and then you won’t mind so much,” 
she said. “You’ll have such a good time at Rahant!” 

“I don’t want to go now,” said Rhoda. “I would 
rather stay and bear it, and have it over with. I don’t 
want to let myself run away from it.” 

“ Perhaps it would be better to stay,” said Uncle 
David. 

“ I expect I’d better go and tell her of it first. It’ll 
perk her up consid’able,” said Grandpa Pringle, whose 
thoughts were all for Dilly. 

Cherry’s first impulse was to jump up and cry out, 
“ Oh, let me go, too !” She wished to beg Dilly’s par- 
don for having doubted her for a moment, and she 
longed to see Dilly’s joy. Dilly would be in her ele- 
ment in a little shop full of birds and animals; her sol- 
itary life had made her very fond of them. She had 
once confided to Cherry that she liked animals, because 
she “ felt as if she was born acquainted with ’em, while 
she had to get acquainted with folks.” 


238 


FLYING HILL FAKM. 


But Cherry repressed her impulse because Rhoda 
was clinging unconsciously to her hand. Rhoda, for 
the first time in her life, seemed to need her sympathy, 
and Cherry’s heart was deeply touched by it. More- 
over, Grandpa Pringle had perhaps a better right to be 
the first to tell Dilly. They would have their plans to 
talk over, and she might be in the way. 

“ But I will go to see Dilly to-morrow, the very first 
thing in the morning,” she resolved. “ Uncle David 
can’t object to my going now.” 


CHAPTER XXI. 

It was a sunshiny morning, with Summer still in her 
bloom, and throwing out only such gay hints as golden- 
rod and asters that she meant to go by-and-by; and 
Cherry, going once more through the woods road to 
Roaring Brook, on Tam’s back, said to herself that she 
was happier than she deserved to be. Happiness was 
a sort of discipline to Cherry, as trouble is to many 
people ; it caused her to reflect upon the smallness of 
her deserts. She thought that it had been “mean” of 
her to doubt Dilly Gage; Dilly, who, with no “good 
influences,” had been better and braver than she could 
have been. And it must have been chiefly her fault 
that Rhoda and she had quarrelled so, Rhoda was so 
really sweet-tempered and lovely now. And yet the 
most penitent person must be aware that Rhoda was 
much “easier to get along with” than she had ever 
been before. 

“She’s so much nicer since she was bad !” was what 
Cherry said to herself, puzzling over deeper problems 
than had ever entered her mind before this summer’s 


FLYING HILL FARM. 


239 


experience. She thought of Loveday’s comment : 
“Folks’s mistakes and sins are always steps to ’em; 
some goes up by ’em and some goes down.” 

Rhoda had gone up by hers, she was sure ; she was 
not probably going to be a different Rhoda all at once, 
but she would never be so sure of her own goodness, 
or so ready to blame others again. It was pleasant to 
see the really delicate consideration shown her by the 
boys, whose small escapades she had always regarded 
with great severity, and been sure to tell of if she had 
an opportunity. They, in return, had always had some 
jeer ready for all Rhoda’s dignified assumptions ; now 
they were almost capable of being politely reticent, 
Cherry thought, if Rhoda should put on a trained 
dress, and “do up ” her hair!” 

“You’re all so good to me, the boys and all!” Rhoda 
had said, and it was then that her hard, strained man- 
ner had given way, and she had burst into tears. 

Ben and Simmy Backup had gone out in the leaky 
old boat on Hewitt’s Pond, and brought her a great 
bunch of water-lilies, and Phonse — Phonse ! — had act- 
ually offered to draw a mandarin for her on the little 
afternoon tea-cloth which she was making for the fair; 
for, after all, Rhoda had listened to Cherry’s reasoning, 
and concluded that her effort to “ live down ” her dis- 
grace must include taking part in the fair as if noth- 
ing had happened. 

And now Rhoda thought of the story of the prodi- 
gal son, and found a meaning in it that had never 
been there for her before. 

She had said to Cherry that she wanted to do some- 
thing for Dilly Cage, something to “ make up ” for the 
wrong which she had done. But Cherry found it diffi- 
cult to suggest any way of atonement, except that to 
which Mr. Pringle and Uncle David were already at- 


240 


FLYING HILL FARM. 


tending — the stopping of the unjust accusations against 
Dilly by relating the facts of the case. It is very diffi- 
cult to “ make up ” for wrongs in this world. 

Cherry was revolving in her mind the faint begin- 
nings of a new plan as she rode through the woods 
road to Roaring Brook. Dilly Gage had said, over 
and over, with deepest feeling, that she (Cherry) had 
helped her just by “ treating her as if she were like 
folks.” There were others in the Roaring Brook set- 
tlement whom she might help in the same way. There 
were three young Bumpus girls, younger than Cally; 
perhaps even Cally might be helped, although one 
might shrink from her abruptness of manner and 
speech. And sixteen -year -old Louy Bumpus, who 
had been a nursery-maid in Chelmsborough, and was 
at home now, ill with hip-disease, was very gentle and 
lovely. She might be a useful assistant in carrying 
out Cherry’s plan. Mort Bumpus, the youngest boy, 
aged fifteen, had been in jail for robbing hen-roosts; 
and little Nick Lowry, who lived at the foot of Tum- 
ble Down Hill, and was only thirteen, had been arrest- 
ed for breaking into a store. That was unpromising 
material, very. Cherry almost decided that it would 
be better to confine her efforts to the girls, especially 
as most of the Roaring Brook boys hooted at her, and 
Pel Trefry set his dog upon her, because he disap- 
proved, on general principles, of “ stuck - up ” folks. 
She meant to have some sewing and reading classes 
for the girls, with a good time to follow each session. 
Rhoda, she thought, might be willing now to help, but 
Rhoda would know how to give them clothes and ad- 
vice better than to give them herself — her companion- 
ship and sympathy. To “make a feast” and invite 
them as guests, to make herself one with them — Rhoda 
would not understand how to do that. She might 


FLYING IIILL FARM. 


241 


learn, but it would take time. Dilly would under- 
stand; she would be able to inspire the others with 
her own desire to be “ like folks,” which, though vain 
and foolish in some respects, had its strong leaven of 
good. Dilly would be the connecting link between 
her and the people whom she wished to help. How 
strangely things had happened to open the way for 
her! Helping Dilly Gage had broadened her horizon 
so that now she saw a whole world full of people to 
help, and was no more in danger of growing morbid 
over Phonse’s unsatisfactory fortunes and her own. 
And a new thought struck her now : Phonse might 
help her about the boys. It would have seemed an 
absurd idea even six months ago. Phonse had felt an 
intense, a morbid pity for animals, but his sympathies 
had apparently been confined to them. Now, since he 
had been troubled by a fear that he had wronged the 
Gages, Cherry had discovered in him a feeling for 
other people. He had been hard upon Dilly; he had 
refused to believe in her; but circumstances had been 
strongly against Dilly — and she had “ made faces !” 
Phonse couldn’t forget that. But now that he had 
discovered his mistake he showed a deep interest in 
Dilly’s vindication. 

“People are often better than a fellow thinks,” he 
had said, wisely, to Cherry. “Perhaps you were right 
about that girl — if a fellow would just as lief go near 
a porcupine.” 

It was not impossible that Phonse might yet help to 
make a feast for the Roaring Brook boys and girls. 
And Ben and Simmy, too ; Ben, in his natural kind- 
ness and good-fellowship, could win them any time. 
They jiever included him among “stuck-up folks,” 
although his air of comradeship never descended to 
sharing, in the smallest degree, their roughness of 
16 


242 


FLYING HILL FARM. 


manner or speech. Yes, Ben could help; Ben had 
given them free tickets to the bear-show. 

And Chelmsborough was not so far away but that 
Dilly could come over to the good times. 

So Cherry rode on with her pleasant plans and the 
anticipation of sharing Dilly’s joy in her happy fort- 
unes for company. 

But when she reached the little tumble-down house 
there were no signs of life about it; the blinds and 
the door were closed, and no one came in answer to 
her knock. She fastened Tam to a tree, and sat down 
on the door-step to wait. Billy would certainly be at 
home by noon, she thought, for through the chinks in 
the shed door she could see that her horse and wagon 
were there. Perhaps she had gone to Chelmsborough 
with Grandpa Pringle to attend to the fitting up of 
the little house and shop. Cherry could imagine the 
pleasure that she would take in that. 

“ You needn’t sit there waitin’ for Dilly Gage; she’s 
gone ’way off, and she ain’t never cornin’ back.” 

It was ’Lando Bumpus who called to her. He was 
going towards the shed with a pail in his hand, evi- 
dently to feed the horse. 

“Has she gone already — gone to Chelmsborough?” 
asked Cherry. 

“Chelmsborough! Well, I guess not. There ain’t 
likely to be much of that in her’n,” said ’Lando, slangy 
but pathetic. 

“ Has anything happened?” faltered Cherry. 

“ Her father — he’s turned up ! And lie’s in trouble, 
of course. He wouldn’t never have sent for her if he 
hadn’t been. He’s got a shock in good earnest now ; 
kind of cur’us, ain’t it? No shamming this time. 
He’s ’way off down to Fall River, in a hospital. The 
nurse that’s takin’ care of him wrote to Dilly. He said 





44 go CIIEKRY RODE ON WITH HER PLEASANT PLANS, 


FLYING HILL FARM. 


243 


that first off they thought he was goin’ to die, but now 
the doctor says he may live for years, but he won’t 
never be* able to help himself much if any, and he 
wanted Dilly wrote to, to come and take care of him. 
She’s got a tough row to hoe, Billy Gage has. She 
used to try to keep folks from knowin’ how cantan- 
kerous he was, but she couldn’t. All the folks down 
here advised her not to go nigh him ; he wa’n’t never 
any kind of a father to her; but she wouldn’t hear to 
’em. She said nobody wouldn’t bear with him as she 
would, and, anyhow, he was her father. She was in a 
terrible hurry to get off. Mr. Pringle helped her, but 
he was all worked up about it. She said she expected 
she’d have to send for her horse and wagon ; she didn’t 
know as there’d be any other way that she could sup- 
port herself and her father ; she’d kind of got used to 
tin-peddlin’. Folks thinks he’s got consid’able money, 
but he’ll hide it away, and make her work herself to 
death to support ’em, you see if he don’t. I heard her 
givin’ Mr. Pringle a lot of messages for you. There 
was something about her payin’ for a horse, and more 
about how much she set by you — kind of girl hifalu- 
tin, I expect.” But although he made this slighting 
remark, ’Lando Bumpus, meeting the gaze of Cher- 
ry’s brimming eyes, drew his shirt-sleeve rapidly and 
roughly across his own. “ She’s an orfle nice girl, 
Billy Gage is,” he said. “She’s square .” 

After all, the standards of the Roaring Brook settle- 
ment were not so different from those of Flying Hill. 

“Seemed kind of hard, didn’t it?” pursued ’Lando, 
“ cornin’ just when she’d got such a chance. You nev- 
er see anybody so pleased as she was about the little 
house and shop she was goin’ to have over to Chelms- 
borough! If she’d been goin’ to sit in a rockin’-chair 
and have a hired girl to wait on her, like Queen Victory 


244 


FLYING HILL FAKM. 


or the President’s wife, she wouldn’t have been half so 
tickled. She’s got a master-head for business, if she 
is a girl, Dilly Gage has. She’d have showed ’em over 
to Chelmsborough that Roaring Brook folks have got 
talents, if they hain’t got anything else.” 

Cherry listened to ’Lando’s flow of eloquence in si- 
lence. Her heart was too full for speech. 

As she mounted Tam and turned his head home- 
ward, life seemed to Cherry a sad and heavy thing. 
The little shop — her fancy had painted it over and 
over, with its fascinating stock; she had not taken in 
the alligator and the bear cubs of Simmy’s envy — their 
charms were not apparent to Cherry — but the birds, 
gay cockatoos, and funny talking parrots, and the white 
mice and squirrels of which Hilly would be so fond; 
and there was to be a delightful little tinkling bell on 
the door, like the one at Miss Cratchett’s ; and the 
rooms behind and above the shop were to be so home- 
like, with muslin curtains tied back with ribbons, and 
blossoming plants, and plenty of mottoes, and tidies, 
and pictures, to make it look “like folks,” as Dilly 
would love to have it; it would not matter in the least 
if Rhoda thought them “ horrid ” and “ common,” or 
Phonse scowled at them as “inartistic” and “ugly”; 
they would suit Dilly. But now, alas ! the little shop 
and the little home had proved to be but the “ baseless 
fabric of a dream.” And her plans to help the Roar- 
ing Brook girls and boys — should she ever have the 
heart to carry them out without Dilly? They would 
not let her help them, she thought, without Dilly as a 
mediator, they had so great a prejudice against the 
“stuck-up” folks on Flying Hill. How foolish she 
had been to think that things had come about strange- 
ly as if to open the way for her little plans ! God had 
swept them away as if they were but cobwebs ; they 


FLYING HILL FARM. 


245 


were evidently of no account whatever in his great 
scheme of things. It seemed to matter little whether 
one tried to help others or not. Perhaps one might as 
well devote one’s self entirely to animals, as Phonse 
had done, even if one got such a craze as to give 
pound-cake to the pig; or, as Rhoda had done, think 
only in a vague way of “ doing right,” and of getting 
one’s hair done up and one’s dresses long. 

So Cherry allowed herself to be easily discouraged, 
and went faintheartedly homeward, yet not without 
an inward consciousness that she might and perhaps 
should, after she recovered from the first shock of dis- 
appointment, carry out her plans without Dilly’s help. 
Rhoda, in her place, would do it, she knew. Rhoda 
had more strength of purpose. 

Cherry found plenty of sympathy in her trouble at 
home. They had all been interested in Dilly Gage’s 
happy prospects, and all mourned for their overthrow. 
Uncle David even said that they must not lose sight 
of her ; they must try to help her ; he was afraid her 
life was likely to be a hard one with that rascally old 
father of hers. 

“ He’s an old rascal, of course,” said Phonse, and 
Phonse was scowling so that he was a sight to see. 

It was in the great wide hall, where they often sat 
on a warm afternoon, and Phonse had started up sud- 
denlv from the sofa on which he had stretched him- 
self. 

“He’s an old rascal, but I’m glad I’ve found out 
where he is. I’ve been trying to find out, because I 
don’t think he told a lie about what he heard that day 
he was hurt — about the time, you know. He meant 
to tell the truth then, if he was telling an orfle lot of 
lies. I suppose he asked me on purpose to pretend he 
couldn’t see.” 


246 


FLYING HILL FARM. 


Phonse spoke hesitatingly. Cherry knew, if no one 
else did, how hard the words came. 

“ Phonse ! — you didn’t — ” 

Uncle David changed color; he half started from his 
seat. 

“No; I didn’t tell him,” said Phonse, “but Cliissy 
Fenwick did. I remembered when that fellow repeat- 
ed just what he said — ‘ It’s nineteen minutes past three, 
but that old clock is never right.’ I ought to have told, 
but I didn’t.” 

Phonse offered none of the excuses for himself about 
which he had been so strenuous in telling Cherry how 
it had happened. Cherry rushed in with them: he 
had not been asked whether any one else had said it; 
the lawyer had “ badgered ” him, there had been so lit- 
tle time to think, etc. 

“The whole truth— -that was what you swore to tell, 
Phonse,” said Uncle David, severely. 

“ Yes ; I did, and I didn’t tell it,” said Phonse. “ I 
guess a fellow knows what he’s done ! He has to be 
thankful when it doesn’t do much harm. I want that 
old fellow to know that I owned up. I did it, but I 
wouldn’t do it again.” 

“ I hope you wouldn’t ! I think you wouldn’t, 
Phonse,” said Uncle David, slowty. “ If things had 
turned out differently — if the old tin-peddler had real- 
ly been injured— ” 

“It made me ’most crazy to think of it, but I wouldn’t 
tell. I couldn't go through with it all again. Cherry 
wanted me to tell then, but I wouldn’t. I thought she 
was going to tell of me, but she went down to see 
Dilly Gage instead, to find out whether they were suf- 
fering. That’s how she got into that scrape about the 
horse.” 

“You and Cherry seem to have had a mania for 


FLYING HILL FARM. 


247 


keeping secrets,” said Uncle David, with a frown. “ It 
is very wrong of you.” 

“We’ve found that out,” said Phonse; “but Cherry 
didn’t want to be a telltale. Besides, I threatened to 
run away; that always scares her.” 

“Upon my word, you’re a brave fellow,” cried Un- 
cle David, “ to scare a girl into keeping the secret of 
your misdoing !” 

“It was mean,” said Phonse, candidly. “I rather 
think I’ve always been pretty mean to Cherry. It was 
pretty sneaking about the arithmetic, you know. I — I 
made her do it.” 

“ But he was orfly brave at the fire,” cried Cherry. 
“And — and sneaks never own up. Oh, Uncle David, 
we can’t be like people in a story, all good, and I don’t 
think we’re all bad ; we’re mixed.” 

“Mixed! I should think so!” exclaimed Uncle Da- 
vid. He was walking up and down the hall, but the 
heaviness of his frown had lessened; there was even 
the slightest of twinkles in his eyes. 

“ I — I think Cherry might have told,” said Rhoda. 
“I knew that she had something on her mind. If I 
hadn’t been hateful about writing to Chissy Fenwick ! 
Perhaps it wasn’t any harm to write, but I threatened 
her, and she was angry. And, after all, the letter wasn’t 
directed right. Mrs. Chisholm told me last week that 
she found she had made a mistake when she gave me 
the address ; so we should never have known about it 
if Phonse hadn’t told — even if Chissy Fenwick had re- 
membered, which I suppose isn’t likely.” 

“It was a lie, Phonse!” Uncle David had paused 
in his walk directly in front of Phonse, and was 
looking down at him sternly. “I was quite proud of 
you that day in court, and you were guilty of false- 
hood!” 


248 


FLYING HILL FARM. 


“I’ve known it all summer,” said Phonse, looking 
utterly miserable. 

“But he didn’t mean to, Uncle David. He told the 
truth when it cost him a lot. He was taken by sur- 
prise, and he had only a minute to think. And it was 
so hard to have to go through with it all over again !” 
said Cherry, full of eagerness. 

“He wasn’t so bad as I — not half,” said Rhoda, 
firmly. 

“You don’t lack earnest defenders, Phonse,” sai'd 
Uncle David. “I am afraid that I haven’t done my 
duty by you; I haven’t understood you; I am not sure 
that I do now; but I think that with God’s help you 
may make yourself a strong, noble man.” Hone of 
them had ever heard Uncle David speak with so much 
feeling. 

“ I won’t be a liar or a sneak, anyway,” said Phonse, 
conquering a sob. 

“Well, well! a pretty summer I’ve had with you 
all!” said Uncle David, in a lighter tone, and with a 
return of the twinkle. “Are there any more confes- 
sions in order? What have you been up to, Ben ?” 

“ It isn’t I, sir,” said Ben, with a serious wag of his 
head. “ I’ve been pretty fair, for me. Perhaps it was 
having the pig to take up my mind. I haven’t any- 
thing particular to confess — it’s Philander.” 

“Philander!” echoed Uncle David. “Oh, I know 
about him; but that isn’t exactly a confession. He’s 
going to marry Lizy Ann, Mrs. Backup’s hired girl, 
and he wants the little old farm-house at the end of 
the lane to go to house-keeping in.” 

“ Oh, but that isn’t all,” said Ben, amid a chorus of 
exclamations. 

“ Philander ! why, he’s as old as Father Christmas 
in the Illustrated Almanac!” cried Cherry. 


FLYING IIILL FARM. 


249 


“ He would drink sweetened water with ginger in it, 
in haying-time, when Lizy Ann fixed it, and he hates 
it! I put two and two together then,” said Rhoda, 
shrewdly. 

“But he must come up and tell stories in winter 
evenings,” said Cherry. “We never shall outgrow 
them.” 

“I don’t know whether he’ll ever tell any more,” 
said Ben. “ It’s about those stories that he’s confessed. 
He said he felt as if he ought to tell Lizy Ann the 
truth, and she thought ’twas his duty to tell everybody. 
He wanted me to tell ; he said ’twould embarrass him 
so much. He ‘ wouldn’t have told anyhow for noth- 
in’ in the world but Lizy Ann’s sake.’ He’s made ’em 
all up !” 

“Well, we haven’t any of us supposed that he hadn’t 
since we were six years old, have we ?” said Rhoda. 

“ All of them, you know,” explained Ben, with se- 
rious emphasis. “He never was mate of the Sarah 
Baker!” 

“Oh, Ben/” Cherry’s tone was full of disappoint- 
ment. 

“lie never went to sea at all,” continued Ben, re- 
morselessly. 

“I don’t see how he could know so much about it,” 
said Rhoda; while Cherry said only “ Oh, dear!” again. 

“ He never was in sight of the sea in his life. He was 
‘born and brought up down to Hardscrabble,’ he said ; 
and he never was more than ten miles away from it 
until he came here.” 

Astonishment caused a dead silence for a moment. 

“ I wouldn’t have minded about the purple peris and 
dragons, and all that kind of thing,” said Cherry, plain- 
tively. “Of course I know he made them up. But 
the Sarah Baker ! why, I knew just how she looked, 


250 


FLYING HILL FARM. 


from her old-fashioned figure-head of a yellow-haired 
lady to the half-worn-out letters on her stern; it’s just 
like losing an old friend ! And there was the time 
they found the stowaway, and the awful storm when 
they saved the crew and passengers of the Victoria. 
And there never was any Sarah Baker at all. Oh, how 
could Philander do it !” 

“ He said he was always meaning to tell that it wasn’t 
true, and it had 4 wore on his conscience consid’able, per- 
tickerlerly when he found how shocked Lizy Ann was 
about it.’ And he said he 4 was ready to confess it 
right out in meetin’, if Squire Brewster thought he 
ought to.’ ” 

Squire Brewster’s stern features relaxed into mirth. 
44 Philander is very truthful generally,” he said. 44 1 
don’t think his confession need go any further. I 
shouldn’t wonder if he should turn out to be the com- 
ing great American novelist.” 

44 There’s one good thing about it, Cherry,” said Ben, 
addressing his consoling remarks to the most deeply af- 
fected one of the party, 44 Philander can begin a brand- 
new set of stories; he says he can. And he says he can 
do better when he isn’t hampered by anybody’s expect- 
ing him to stick to facts.” 

44 1 must say I think it was very wrong of Philander,” 
said Rhoda. 44 But then, if he is really sorry — And it 
will be delightful to have some brand-new stories. I 
was tired of that old ship, and I always thought it went 
through too much.” 

But Cherry still mourned for the Sarah Baker — 
which never was — and she was only aroused from her 
sadness by Phonse’s low-voiced request that she should 
come and help him write to Preserved Gage. They 
must go to Mr. Pringle and get the address. And then, 
too, they should hear from Dilly. 


FLYING HILL FARM. 


251 


Plionse wanted “ to have it over with.” He could 
have no interest even in Philander’s “ confession” until 
that had been accomplished. 


CHAPTER XXII. 

“No, it will never be just the same as if I had told 
the whole truth that day in court ; you can’t make me 
believe it will,” said Phonse, in answer to Cherry’s ear- 
nest efforts at consolation. “ If a fellow could only take 
things back ! I feel now as if I would be willing to go 
through with it all again if I could. I’m not going to 
keep on talking about it, like a girl, but if ever you 
catch me being anything but square again — ” 

The painful task of writing to Preserved Gage was 
accomplished. 

“ If he wants every one to know how it was, I’m will- 
ing,” said Phonse. “ It must have been so awfully pro- 
voking to the old rascal, you know, to have no one be- 
lieve the only thing he said that was true, or that he 
thought was true. But there’s one excuse that I might 
have made for myself that I never did, Cherry. It 
would have been easier for me to say, ‘ I didn’t say that, 
but Chissy Fenwick did;’ but I had mustered all my 
courage to own up about — about my not being able to 
tell time, if it icas humiliating enough to kill a fellow, 
and it came over me like a flash that although that 
would be a relief it would ruin Uncle David. I didn’t 
seem to think that ’twas wrong not to do it, not until 
I’d come down from the witness-stand ; then I was 
’most crazy right away. But I felt as if it would kill 
me to get up there again.” 


252 


FLYING HILL FARM. 


“It was hard, orfly hard, Phonse,” said Cherry, with 
deep sympathy. 

“A fellow has to learn that there’s just one thing to 
be done, to be square , first of all, and in spite of every- 
thing. I hope every one doesn’t have to learn it as 
hard as I have. And now we won’t talk about it any 
more, ever , Cherry,” said Phonse, with dignity. “ I used 
to hate the clock and the multiplication-table, but I 
don’t think much about those now, nor how much any 
fellow sneers at me. I tell you, Cherry, there’s nothing 
so bad, not half so bad, as to have to sneer at yourself !” 

Phonse’s penitence and self-scorn were so deep as 
to be almost beyond Cherry’s comprehension, and she 
could think of no consolation that seemed adequate. 

“ I didn’t tell you, Cherry ” — Phonse’s heavy face be- 
came bright — “ Madame Miel is coming to Byerly again 
this winter, and Uncle David says I may have lessons 
of her if I learn the multiplication-table before school 
begins, and if I stick to arithmetic and algebra until 
I’ve mastered them. I shall !” 

“Of course you will, and it will be beautiful,” said 
Cherry, heartily. 

“ I can draw, you know,” said Phonse, with a long 
breath of satisfaction. 

While this conference was going on in the rainy-day 
attic, where all the young people were in the habit of 
retiring when strict privacy was desirable, Philander 
and Simmy, also in private conference, sat on the wood- 
pile behind Deacon Backup’s barn. 

“ Now I’ve got on the confessin’ tack, as you might 
say, Simmy, there’s one other thing that I’m a-goin’ to 
own up to — only jest to you, Simmy, and with the un- 
derstandin’ that it ain’t to go any further. Bein’ I’m 
a-goin’ to marry your ma’s hired girl, you and me are 
kind of relations, if I may make bold to say so.” 


FLYING HILL FARM. 


253 


“So we are; it’s queer that I didn’t think of it be- 
fore,” said Simmy, heartily, much touched by this evi- 
dence of Philander’s esteem. 

“ And I don’t mind tellin’ you what I wouldn’t tell 
some folks. You know now that them dragons and 
bears and things was made up, and that I ain’t no old 
tar ; but there’s one thing that you nor nobody hain’t 
never suspected, and that some wouldn’t never own up 
to. But I’m one that when I get a-goin’ I go the whole 
figger. Simmy, jest between you and me, I ain’t and 
I never was a man of courage.” 

Various thoughts flew from Simmy’s brain to the 
very end of his nimble tongue. “ I ain’t, either,” was 
what almost popped out the very first thing, and 
“ that’s what Ben always said,” came next. But Sim- 
my had learned the value of second thoughts, and 
neither of these candid remarks did he make. “It 
must be orfle,” he said, sympathetically. “ You ain’t 
afraid of the dark, are you?” he added, with sudden 
interest. 

“ Well, no, I ain’t so bad as that, and I can stand up 
agin a thunder-storm, but I hain’t any hankerin’ after 
fire-arms. I never handle that old rifle without makin’ 
sure it ain’t loaded. Simmy, there wa’n’t nothin’ in it 
that night we went huntin’ in Roarin’ Brook woods. 
I’m a philosopher, you know, Simmy, and I reasons 
that night that where wild beasts has killed one fire- 
arms has killed thousands. I never let Ben get hold 
of that rifle, for fear he’d find out that ’twa’n’t loaded ; 
he’s terrible sharp, Ben is, and he ain’t afraid enough. 
If it wa’n’t for my unloadin’ that gun on the sly, ’tain’t 
noways likely that he’d have the use of any of his 
limbs to-day, to say nothin’ of bein’ killed. You re- 
member that time, Fourth of July, Simmy, when I 
teched off the cannon?” 


254 


FLYING HILL FARM. 


Simmy nodded a vigorous assent. “And you said 
it set you to thirsting for glory,” he said. 

“Simmy, that was figgerative language ; it never 
done no such a thing,” said Philander, solemnly. “I 
had such an in \ ite that I couldn’t decline without let- 
tin’ folks suspect that I was afraid. It’s mortifyin’ to 
have folks know that you’re afraid.” 

“Yes, it — it must be,” said Simmy. 

“ It was terrible tryin’, but I done it, and that was 
the only time I ever fired anything off. I’m always 
expectin’ that I shall be obleeged to fire the old rifle, 
but Providence and my keepin’ it onloaded has seemed 
to favor me.” 

“ If ever you should want help about it, you might 
just come to me,” said Simmy, eagerly. One of the 
things to which his courage was equal was the old rifle, 
Simmy felt sure. “ If ever you get afraid of anything 
you might come to me,” continued Simmy, valiantly. 
“Of course I’m not very big, but just seeing that I 
wasn’t afraid might help you.” 

“ I expect now I’d better go to milkin’,” said Phi- 
lander. “Them kind of peaceful avercations is what 
gives a man a green old age, Simmy, more’n follerin’ 
the sea or handlin’ fire-arms.” 

Simmy got meditatively down from the wood-pile, 
and walked away. He wondered whether he should 
ever become as resigned as Philander was to the 
“peaceful avocations” which a lack of courage made 
necessary. It seemed doubtful whether a boy who was 
afraid of the dark could ever become a cowboy, or a 
lion-tamer, or even the engineer of a lightning express. 

Little Caleb came running towards him with his 
slate in his hand ; it was upon this slate that little 
Caleb’s talent, in one form or another, continually 
found expression. 


FLYING HILL FARM. 


255 


<£ Little Caleb, what shall you do when you are a 
man?” asked Simmy, seriously. (Little Caleb was not 
in the least afraid of the dark.) 

“I shall tell stories, like Philander. See, I have 
written a composition, like what they write at school. 
It is about a man. Mother told me to write about a 
man. You may read it.” 

Simmy made a wry face as he took the slate. He 
was not of a literary turn. 

“ CoMpERsisIIUN BY C BACkUp JUNEYER 
A MAN Is A BEING . HE is sPLIT iN 2 AT 
WUN END . HE WOKs ON THE sPLIT ENDs.” 

“I shouldn’t wonder if you did get to be a story- 
teller like Philander,” said Simmy, rather because he 
felt a desire to encourage little Simmy than because 
he appreciated this literary effort. “I can tell you 
they don’t have many such compositions as that over 
to the ’cademy ! But I don’t know what I shall be.” 
Simmy spoke in a tone that touched little Caleb’s heart. 

“ You might keep a show,” he suggested, hopefully. 

“Let’s go and take a look at old Garibaldi,” said 
Simmy, brightening a little. 

“ Oh, I was going to tell you, only my composition 
made me forget it ! Old Mr. Lancaster wants to buy 
him. Father told him he was yours. He says you 
may sell him, and have the money yourself.” 

Simmy leaned over the sty, and gazed at Garibaldi ; 
there were no signs of talent or education about him ; 
he was a pig pure and simple. 

“I will sell him,” said Simmy. “And oh, I know 
what I’ll do!” Every trace of dejection had vanished 
from Simmy’s face. “I’ll go over to Belford and ask 
Mr. Pringle to sell me one of his bear cubs.” 


256 


FLYING HILL FARM. 


Bright and early the next morning Simmy concluded 
his negotiations with Mr. Lancaster, and with the money 
in his pocket set out for Belford. It was a five-mile 
walk, but happy visions cheered Simmy on his w T ay. If 
he set out plain Simmy Backup, in his old jacket, and 
afraid of the dark, before he arrived at Belford he had 
become “the Hon. Simeon Backup, owner of the cel- 
ebrated bear , the delight of all the crowned heads 

of Europe.” (Simmy did not know just what the pre- 
fix Hon. meant, but he was certain that it ought to be 
applied to so great a man as the proprietor of a distin- 
guished bear.) The problem of a name for the bear 
could not be settled until Ben had been consulted. He 
would have asked Ben to go with him, if it had not 
been for the pleasure of giving him a delightful sur- 
prise. 

Grandpa Pringle, after some hesitation, consented to 
sell one of his bear cubs. 

“They’re master pretty little creturs,” he said, “and 
I wouldn’t let one of ’em go to anybody that I wa’n’t 
sure would take good care of him; but I liked the way 
you managed with the Captain. I expect you’re pretty 
smart.” 

“ Pretty smart,” answered Simmy, with modest can- 
dor ; “ and Ben is smarter than I am ; and we’ve had 
an orfle lot of experience.” 

Grandpa Pringle referred feelingly to his own disap- 
pointment. He had accepted the position offered him 
at the Chelmsborougli Museum ; he had hired the little 
house and shop in the row, but he had set his heart 
upon having Dilly Gage to keep house for him, and be 
a daughter to him in his old age; and now that he had 
lost her he was tempted to give up all his new prospects. 

“There was old Mr. Peter Toots, at the poor-house; 
he had a stroke, but when his rich son turned up he 


FLYING HILL FARM. 


257 


liad him moved to New York. It didn’t hurt him any. 
Dilly Gage might bring her father with her.” 

“ I declare if you ain’t more’n a pretty smart boy!” 
exclaimed Grandpa Pringle. “ If I thought of that at 
all it seemed kind of impossible. But I believe it ain’t. 
I’ll see what the doctors say, anyhow. I don’t care 
any great about Preserved Gage’s s’ciety, but I’d rath- 
er take him than to go without Dilly.” 

Grandpa Pringle w*as so gratified at Simmy’s sug- 
gestion that he insisted upon his accepting the cub as 
a present; and Simmy, on his homeward way, had the 
additional happiness of reckoning up how much of a 
start in the show business might be made with his pig- 
money. 

Both Simmy and Ben were wild with delight over 
the bear cub, and quite forgot to tell of Simmy’s sug- 
gestion which had been so favorably received by old 
Grandpa Pringle. And so it happened that the very 
first that Cherry heard of Dilly Gage was when, a week 
afterwards, Grandpa Pringle came in with a beaming 
face to tell them that Dilly, with her father, was ex- 
pected to arrive in a few days at the little house in the 
row. And he made so bold as to ask them to help him 
to prepare it for her reception! 

Never did a man find more willing helpers; no more 
delightful excitement could be imagined than this of 
getting Dilly Gage’s little house ready for her coming. 
Rhoda was almost as eager and enthusiastic as Cherry, 
and willing to sacrifice her own tastes that things might 
be just as Dilly would like to have them. They bought 
the prettiest carpets and furniture to be found in Chelms- 
borough — Grandpa Pringle displayed a comfortably fat 
purse, and was anxious that there should be no “ skimp- 
in’ ” — and the very muslin curtains of Cherry’s dreams, 
tied back with ribbons. Rhoda made a beautiful 
17 


258 


FLYING HILL FARM. 


little hand-screen ; she made it of that very piece of 
cameo-pink silk, and painted wild -roses npon it, and 
trimmed it with silver fringe, as she had intended to 
do for the fair. When Cherry looked her surprise she 
said: “I don’t think I shall ever like to see it, but it 
may be good for me when I go to see Dilly. Yes, I 
shall go to see her — if she wants me to.” But so many 
queer things were happening that this scarcely seemed 
queer at all. 

Phonse drew a delightful motto. He scowled when 
Cherry suggested it, but he did it nevertheless. He 
would not draw a scroll of lilies, with “Consider the 
lilies” upon it, like one that Rhoda had seen, but he 
drew a most fascinating old witch astride a broomstick, 
with a lot of funny little goblins, and the words were: 
“Ne witch, ne goblin black daur come, to mar ye com- 
fort of your home.” 

There were pretty fixings everywhere, such as Hilly 
would be sure to like. They had but little time, but 
they worked with a will. 

And then, most delightful of all, Grandpa Pringle pro- 
posed that there should be a little house-warming when 
Dilly should arrive. Nothing “ too lively,” for Dilly 
would be tired, and there was her father to be thought 
of. It was to be observed that Grandpa Pringle made 
a wry face when he spoke of Preserved Gage, but he 
hastened to make amends for it by saying: “Seems as 
if there must be a little spark of good in that old ras- 
cal, or Dilly wouldn’t think so much of him. But, then, 
he’s her father, and Dilly ain’t one that can forget it. 
I had a letter from the doctor that has ’tended him, and 
he said ’twa’n’t best to tell her that he hadn’t a great 
while to live, she seemed to feel so bad about him.” 

Only a few friends, he thought, might be invited to 
welcome Dilly, and he “ rather guessed ” she hadn’t a 


FLYING HILL FARM. 


259 


great many. There were the Bumpus girls, and ’Lando 
Bumpus, and old Mrs. Fickett from the Roaring Brook 
settlement, and the Flying Hill Farm people. After all 
that had been and gone, Hilly had said she thought 
they “ was her friends.” If the company seemed to 
them “a little mixed,” he hoped they would be able to 
put up with it for Dilly’s sake. 

Rhoda said at once that she was sure she should en- 
joy it very much. How delightfully it had changed 
Rhoda to be for once in her life to blame ! thought 
Cherry. Phonse — it must be admitted that Phonse 
scowled rather badly at first, and permitted himself to 
say uncomplimentary things about the house - warm- 
ing — Phonse would be Phonse to the end of the chap- 
ter; but he ended by not only consenting to go, but to 
act as master of ceremonies and wear a Jacqueminot 
rose in his button-hole. 

Ben and Simmy (the latter having been invited as a 
particular friend of Grandpa Pringle) accepted the in- 
vitation with great eagerness, chiefly, as it appeared, 
with a view of catching a glimpse of the alligator. 

Loveday showed great enthusiasm in preparing tooth- 
some delicacies for the occasion. “It’s easy for folks 
to be mistaken about their fellow-creatures,” was all 
that she said, but Cherry perfectly understood that the 
angel-cake, and the charlotte-russe, and the lemon jelly, 
were an atonement to Dilly Gage for having misjudged 
her. And she said she meant “ to go with her good 
victuals to see that they wa’n’t spoiled in the serving.” 
Lest this should seem too much of a concession, she 
added that “it did seem queer doin’s when their chil- 
dren went to a party ’long of Roarin’ Brook folks. 
Mebbe ’twas all right, but she hoped their Aunt Adam 
would come to live at the Farm, as Squire Brewster 
expected, for the responsibility of them children was 


260 


FLYING HILL FARM. 


too much for her shoulders — if it did seem, with all 
their actions, that they was growin’ better instead of 
worse.” 

Tildy tossed her curls, and said she “ expected that 
if their folks could demean themselves to go to Dilly 
Gage’s party she should have to go to wait upon ’em, 
though she couldn’t say that she shouldn’t let Roarin’ 
Brook folks know that she felt the difference.” But in 
spite of her scorn it was noticeable that Tildy took great 
pains with her toilet, and was decked with hot (curling- 
iron) crimps instead of the cold (curl - paper) ones, 
which sufficed her for all but the greatest occasions. 

It was an exciting and a delightful moment when, 
her father having been carried safely to his bedroom 
and settled comfortably there, Billy w T as led to the 
sitting-room, where her guests were all assembled. 
There was old Mrs. Fickett (who had always been 
neighborly about her shawl), very old indeed, and very 
fat, who was constantly falling into cat-naps to awake 
with a start, and say to her nearest neighbor that she 
“had always known Billy Gage was born for great 
things ; she had felt it in her bones.” There was Gaily 
Bumpus in a dress as pink as her feather, and with a 
string of great white wax-beads around her throat; 
and her lame sister with a pale and patient face, but 
eyes shining now with pleasure ; and ’Lando in a scar- 
let necktie and a large brass watch-chain. Phonse 
was graceful and elegant, and trying hard (in accord- 
ance with private advice delicately given by Cherry) 
not to scowl. Cherry, radiant, was making herself 
perfectly at home, and Rhoda was trying to do so, w T ith 
only partial success. She looked a little flushed and 
uneasy as Billy stood in the door-way. 

Billy looked at the pretty, cheerful room, and then 
around at the familiar faces. 


DILLY GAGE S HOME-COMING 







pm 





















































N 











FLYING HILL FARM. 


261 


“ It’s cornin’ home and findin’ own folks !” she cried. 
And then she burst into tears. 

Grandpa Pringle, whose very bald head seemed to 
shine with delight, said he “ wasn’t going to have any 
of that,” even if they were happy tears, and Dilly 
speedily showed an April face. She spoke to Rhoda 
almost the first one. She held out her hand to her, 
and said : 

“It was real good of you to come.” Rhoda took 
the hand in a firm little nervous grasp, and then, with 
a sudden impulse, she kissed her — kissed Dilly Gage ! 

Nothing saved Cherry from crying then, except the 
discovery that Ben and Simmy Backup, who held such 
girlish demonstrations in scorn, were, in the shadow of 
a curtain, indulging in derisive mimicry. 

Philander sat modestly in the background with his 
fiddle. At the last moment Grandpa Pringle had been 
afraid that the occasion would not be lively enough, 
and had declared that they must have a dance, and he 
would lead out old Mrs. Fickett. 

Every one claimed so much of Dilly’s attention that 
it was long before Cherry could find an opportunity 
to ask her about the letter. She knew that Phonse 
wished to know what Preserved Gage had said. 

“I didn’t know first off whether he’d ever know 
anything again,” said Dilly, when at length Cherry, in 
a quiet corner, had a chance to ask her question. “He 
never looked at me nor spoke, and I thought he was 
dyin’. I was scairt and I couldn’t do nothin’, and I 
said a verse I know; it’s kind of a prayer. I said it 
first off to be like folks, and now it kind of helps me. 
First I knew father’s lips was movin’; he never opened 
his eyes, and he never made a mite of a noise, but he 
was sayin’ it after me ! Then I knew he could hear 
mej and he could make me understand him. But he 


262 


FLYING HILL FARM. 


wouldn’t never say anything more till I read that let- 
ter out to him. Then he made his lips go again, and I 
made out after a while that he was sayin’: ‘Mebbe 
folks ain’t so bad as I used to think they was, Dilly. 
And if I had a chance I’d be better. You can tell 
that boy I hain’t nothin’ agin him.’ ” 

It seemed strange to wish to be forgiven by Pre- 
served Gage, but Phonse really looked relieved when 
Cherry repeated those words to him. 

They were dancing now, but the dancing could 
scarcely be called a success. Roaring Brook steps and 
those of Flying Hill Farm were hopelessly different, 
Rhoda did not like to dance with ’Lando Bumpus, 
and poor ’Lando, instead of being flattered, was much 
distressed. And Cherry took to heart the lesson upon 
the necessity of tact and discretion in the manage- 
ment of the alliance which she meant to form between 
civilized Byerly and the Roaring Brook settlement. 
Perhaps Dilly’s house-warming was the only occasion 
on which they would ever meet just like this. 

Things were much better when they all went down 
to see the fascinating stock of the little shop, and Ben 
and Simmy were repaid for the effort to adapt them- 
selves to a social occasion which was not at all in their 
line. 

It was while they were in the shop that Grandpa 
Pringle told of a queer happening about Dilly’s horse. 
He had proved to be a horse once owned by the show 
company, which fact accounted for his queer curvet- 
ings and prancings, and which they had sold for a 
song to Lucius Perry because he was, as they thought, 
hopelessly diseased. Lucius Perry had put him under 
Dr. Clinch’s care, and the good little doctor had cured 
him. Now the show company had bought him back 
again for twice what he had cost. 


FLYING IIILL FARM. 


263 


Dilly was anxious to give Cherry all the purchase- 
money, but was obliged to be contented with paying 
what the horse had cost. 

“As orfle good as Grandpa Pringle is to me, it’s real 
good to pay it without being beholden to anybody !” 
said Billy, with one of her old flashes of independence. 

It was almost midnight when they left Dilly to the 
peaceful possession of her cosey little home. 

“ Things are so much better and happier than when 
we drove home from Chelmsborough on that court 
day !” said Cherry, as they drove through the starlit 
night. 

“Beats all how things have worked together for 
good !” said Loveday. 

“A horned owl, a jackdaw, two talking parrots, an 
armadillo — if he is stuffed — white mice, and cockatoos, 
orfle queer rabbits, and an alligator, and a monkey com- 
ing !” murmured Simmy, sleepy, but haunted by the 
fascinating shop. “ A fellow would never have thought 
that Dilly Gage would get up in the world like that !” 


THE END. 






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Campmates. By Kirk Munroe. 

Published by HARPER & BROTHERS, New York. 

ny of the above works will be sent by mail , postage prepaid, 
to any part of the United States, Canada , or Mexico, on receipt 
of the price. 


By HOWARD PYLE. 


MEN OF IRON. Illustrated by the Author. 8vo, 
Cloth, Ornamental, $2 00. 

Boys, and girls, too, will find this a most charming book of 
adventure and chivalrous doings .—^Independent, N. Y. 

A MODERN ALADDIN. Illustrated by the Au- 
thor. Post 8vo, Cloth, Ornamental, $1 25. 

An amazingly good story. . . . We had thought that this style 
of story-telling was a lost art, but Mr. Pyle has here renewed it 
for us in the fashion of a master. — A T . Y. Sun. 

THE WONDER CLOCK; or, Four -and -Twenty 
Marvellous Tales : being One for each Hour of the 
Day. Illustrated by the Author. Embellished with 
Verses by Katharine Pyle. Large 8vo, Orna- 
mental Half Leather, $3 00. 

One of the happiest, quaintest, and most attractive of new art 
books. — N. Y. Herald. 

THE ROSE OF PARADISE. Being a Detailed 
Account of Certain Adventures that happened to 
Captain John Mackra, in Connection with the fa- 
mous Pirate, Edward England, in the Year 1720. 
Illustrated by the Author. Post 8vo, Cloth, Orna- 
mental, $1 25. 

One of the most spirited and life-like stories of sea adventure 
that we ever remember to have read. — N. Y. Mail and Express. 

PEPPER AND SALT ; or, Seasoning for Young 
Folk. Illustrated by the Author. 4to, Cloth, Orna- 
mental $2 00. 

A quaint and charming book. . . . Mr. Pyle’s wonderful ver- 
satility is shown in the different kinds of subjects and the various 
periods he treats, in every gradation of humor, mirth, and sly sat- 
ire, with now and then a touch of fine sadness. — Critic , N. Y. 


Published by HARPER & BROTHERS, Hew York. 

Up tfjp Any of the above zvorks zvill be sent by mail, postage prepaid, 
to any part of the United States, Canada , or Mexico , on receipt 
of the price. 


By THOMAS W. KNOX. 


THE “BOY TRAVELLERS” SERIES. 

Adventures of Two Youths — 

In the Far East. Five Volumes : 

In Japan and China — In Siam and Java — In 
Ceylon and India — In Egypt and Palestine — 
In Central Africa. 

In South America. In Mexico. 

In the Russian Empire. In Great Britain and 
On the Congo. Ireland. 

In Australasia. In Northern Europe. 

Copiously Illustrated. Square Svo, Cloth, Ornamental, 
$3 00 per Volume. Volumes sold separately. 


The Voyage of the “Vivian” to the North Pole 
and Beyond. Adventures of Two Youths in the 
Opan Polar Sea. Copiously Illustrated. Square 
8 vo, Cloth, Ornamental, $2 50. 

Hunting Adventures on Land and Sea. Two 
Volumes. Copiously Illustrated. Square 8vo, Cloth, 
Ornamental, $250 each. Each volume complete in 
itself. The volumes sold separately . 

The Young Nimrods in North America. 

The Young Nimrods Around the World. 


Published by HARPER & BROTHERS, Hew York. 

p^TA ny of the above works toil l be sent by mail ', postage prepaid, 
to any part of the United States , Canada, or Mexico, on receipt 
of the price. 


By CHARLES CARLETON COFFIN. 


These are not books for boys alone, but well-arranged and care- 
fully prepared histories of war, profusely illustrated, with authen- 
tic sketches of battle-fields, historic places, and buildings. — Ob- 
server , N. Y. 

Mr. Coffin writes interestingly; he uses abundance of incident ; 
his style is pictorial and animated ; he takes a sound view of the 
inner factors of national development and progress ; and his pages 
are plentifully ~prinkled with illustrations. — Literary World , Bos- 
ton. 

THE BOYS OF ’76. A History of the Battles of 
the Revolution. 

THE STORY OF LIBERTY. 

OLD TIMES IN THE COLONIES. 

BUILDING THE NATION. Events in the History 
of the United States from the Revolution to the Be- 
ginning of the War between the States. 

DRUM-BEAT OF THE NATION. The First Pe- 
riod of the War of the Rebellion, from its Outbreak 
to the Close of 1862. 

MARCHING TO VICTORY. The Second Period 
of the War of the Rebellion, including the Year 
1863. 

REDEEMING THE REPUBLIC. The Third Pe- 
riod of the War of the Rebellion in the Year 1864. 

FREEDOM TRIUMPHANT. The Fourth Period 
of the War of the Rebellion, from September, 1864, 
to its Close. 

Profusely Illustrated. Square 8yo> Cloth, Ornamental* 
$3 00 each. 


Published by HARPER & BROTHERS, New York. 

HUP Any of the above works will be sent by mail , postage prepaid , 
to any part of the United States, Canada, or Mexico, on receipt 
of the price. 


























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